OF  CALIBORNI 

DAVIS 


"WAS    WATCHING    THE    TRAIN,    AND    LONGED    TO    ROAM' 


DRIFTED    IN 


BY 


WILL   CARLETON 


AUTHOR    OF    "FARM    BALLADS",    "FARM    FESTIVALS", 
"SONGS  OF  TWO  CENTURIES",  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

1908 


COPYRIGHT,    1908,  BY  WILL  CARLETON 
All  Rights  Reserved 


CONTENTS  OF  BOOK 


THREAD  OF  STORY 

ALLUDING    TO 

The  Roving  Hamlet 8 

The   Husbandman 19 

The  Dreamers 25 

The  Railroad  Sleeping-Chamber 41 

The  Insurrection 46 

The  Ever-Womanly 63 

Gracious  Old  Age 78 

The  Captain's  Discourse 88 

The  Baby's   Cry. 89 

The  Elocutionist   93 

The    Oil-Mounds 96 

News   From    Without 131 

A    Crystal   Palace 133 

The    Thunder-Storm 134 

INCIDENTAL  POEMS 

COMPRISING 

Song  of  the  Church-Bell.. 10 

The  Honk  of  the  Railless   Car 14 

The   Golden  Devil 16 

Auto  and  Saint 20 

Harvest  Song 24 

The  Babes  and  the  Bull 26 

Converse  with  the  Sea. .  31 


Contents  of  Book. 

The   Ghost-Walk 33 

The  Hermit  Tree 42 

The  Captain's  Story 49 

The   Old  Front   Gate 55 

Song  of  the   Wires 59 

What   Santa   Claus   Was   Like 64 

The  Starlings'  Christmas  Tree 67 

Three  Christmasses 71 

Christmas  in  the  Hospital 79 

The    Waifs    Thanksgiving 84 

Our  Messenger  Out  of  the  Sky 90 

The  Coming  of  the  King 94 

To  the  Mound-Builders 99 

The   Hearse    of   Hands 100 

Up  Train  and  Down  Train 102 

Away  From  Our  Homes 104 

The    Merry    Tennis  Girl 107 

The    Oak-Tree's    Prophecy 108 

The   Ghost  of  Sable   Island 112 

Chain-Rooted  and  Fleet-Footed 115 

The  Pauper  Soldier 116 

The  Ballad  of  Sir   Tom 117 

Fighting  For  Peace 119 

The  Sack  of  Flour 122 

Farmer  Stebbins  at  the  Rummage-Sale 124 

'Twixt  Wave  and  Star 129 

Song  of  Danger 135 

'AFTER-WORDS 

CONCERNING 

Why  Prefaces  Are  Skipped 137 

Title  and  Plan  of  Book 137 

Church-Bells  Near  Stations..  ,.138 


Drifted   In. 

Stripes   on   Conductors'   Arms 138 

Automobiles — Pro   and   Con 138 

The  Evolution  of  Grain-Gathering 139 

College  Hazing 139 

The  Lower  Berth 140 

The  Ancient  Mariners 140 

Church-Snobbishness 140 

A  Legacy  to  Stars 141 

Ultra-Ancient   Cities 141 

True   Meaning   of    Peace 142 

Statesmen   That   Were  Poor   When  Boys.. 143 

Sudden   Storms 143 

Snow-Wonders   143 

The  Captain's  Song 144 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"Was  watching  the  train,  and  long 
ed  to  roam" Frontispiece 

"It's  the  first  big  stare  that  he  ever 

took''    Facing  Page  22 

"The  kicks  he'd  gathered  five  years  or 

more" "        "      24 

"Knocked  the  whole  room  into  wreck 
age"  "         "       40 

"Fellows  comin'  there  with  preachers, 

for  to  take  our  gals  away"   "         "       56 

"Fellows  drivin'  up  with  coffins,  for 
to  bear  away  our  dead" "        "       58 

"She  gazed  at  the   organ  and  the 

choir" "        "       86 

"New     pleasures     we     never     had 

known" "        "      92 

"The  nation's  future  hope  was  hover 
ing  here"  "        "     130 


DRIFTED  IN. 


DRIFTED  IN. 


All  day  on  the  steel-clad  road  we  sped, 
The  chill  rails  quivering  'neath  our  tread, 
And  snowflakes  ever  and  yet  again 
Assailing  our  cars  and  coaches  ten. 
The  bright-clad  forests  of  weeks  ago 
Were  waist-deep  shivering  in  the  snow: 
Bare-armed,  bare-headed,  bare-shouldered  stood 
These  sinless  vagabonds  of  the  wood, 
Whom  Nature  each  winter  must  condemn, 
And  bring  their  bleak  white  prisons  to  them. 
The  fields  gave  chilliness  to  the  sight — 
Great  out-door  rooms,  with  carpets  of  white, 
And  houses  for  furniture,  pale  with  gloom, 
As  bare  and  desolate  as  a  tomb, 
Save  when  from  a  chimney-fountain  broke 
A  lofty  river  of  clear  white  smoke, 
That  climbed  from  the  banks  of  a  cloud-made  sky, 
And  cozily  greeted  the  careless  eye, 
And  flaunted  in  eddy  and  current  and  wreath, 
The  cheer  and  comfort  that  dwelt  beneath, 
And  made  the  wanderer  wish  that  he 
Within  those  cozier  bounds  might  be, 
While  some  one,  maybe,  in  that  same  home, 
Was  "watching  the  train",  and  longed  to  roam: 

7 


Drifted   In. 

So  easy  it  is  to  bewail  our  lot, 
And  ask  the  fates  for  what  we  have  not. 
The  villages  strung  along  the  road 
Had  thatches  of  white  on  each  abode, 
And  villagers,  home  by  the  frost-king  sent, 
To  stay  by  their  firesides  seemed  content, 
Or,  swaddled  in  furs,  crept  to  and  fro, 
Like  wanderers  from  the  Esquimaux. 

So,  still  through  the  waning  hours  we  sped: 
The  day  slow  dying  would  soon  be  dead, 
And  all  things  dimmed  to  the  failing  sight, 
As  light  crept  into  the  arms  of  night. 
How  common  and  yet  how  queer  a  phase 
Of  twentieth  century  nights  and  days — 
Inherited  from  the  toil  and  strain 
Of  nineteenth  century  heart  and  brain! 
Now  full  of  people  of  varied  worth, 
Rush  villages  up  and  down  the  earth; 
Each  one  with  its  one  long  swaying  street, 
On  which  the  tribes  of  the  nations  meet. 
This  roving  hamlet,  where  boor  and  belle 
And  pauper  and  prince  in  peace  may  dwell, 
With  real  and  imagined  joys  and  ills, 
Is  nestled  in  valleys  and  perched  on  hills; 
Townships  an  hundred  our  village  may  hold, 
Ere  even  a  winter's  day  is  old— 
It  adds  to  many  a  city's  numbers, 
Ere  yet  its  shifting  populace  slumbers. 
At  which — as  you  oft  have  been  advised — 
Your  ancestors  would  have  been  surprised. 

The  night  fell  heavy;  the  storm  increased, 
With  constant  news  from  the  far  northeast, 

B 


Drifted  In. 

And  battered  against  our  flying  wains — 

This  ponderous  ghost  of  the  frozen  rains. 

Upon  our  windows  great  snow-flakes  rushed, 

By  cruel  hands  of  the  breezes  crushed; 

And  many  a  white  fantastic  wreath 

Was  maimed  by  the  struggling  wheels  beneath. 


Still  on  we  sped!  for  the  time-card  said 

That  towns  awaited  us  far  ahead; 

Where  schemes  by  scores  were  depending  on 

The  moments  saved  and  the  distance  won. 

A  lover  was  yearning  along  the  way, 

To  be  a  bridegroom  before  next  day; 

A  father  and  husband  hoped  for  showers 

Of  birthday  gifts  in  the  morning  hours; 

A  capitalist,  with  eyes  of  steel, 

Tomorrow  or  never  would  make  "that  deal"; 

A  famous  physician  was  soon  to  gain 

A  princely  fee  from  a  bed  of  pain; 

A  lawyer  "figured"  how  a  half-wise 

Half-foolish  jury  to  hypnotize; 

A  pastor  pondered  with  nervous  shocfc, 

Some  new  delinquency  in  his  flock, 

Or  some  uprisen  financial  care, 

And  knew  he  was  needed  then  and  there ; 

A  bandit  crouched  in  his  cushioned  seat, 

And  thought  of  the  comrades  he  soon  would  meet, 

And  how  they  would  add  to  their  shifting  wealth, 

In  borrowing  others'  goods  by  stealth; 

A  bride  in  her  waning  honeymoon 

Was  homesick  to  see  her  parents  soon; 

And,  journeying  toward  bleak  tombs  afar, 

A  pale  corse  lay  in  the  foremost  car. 

9 


Drifted   I'n. 

What  risks  the  traveller  has  to  run — 
What  new-made  dangers  to  meet  or  shun! 
A  thousand  events,  with  perils  rife, 
Reach  up  or  downward,  to  grasp  a  life; 
A  thousand  forces,  in  gleam  or  gloom, 
Are  maybe  canvassing  for  the  tomb. 
The  broken  rail,  or  the  shattered  wheel, 
The  watchman's  slumber,  the  bandit's  zeal, 
The  traitor-switch,  the  signal  astray, 
The  wrecker's  dispute  of  the  right  of  way, 
All  risked  by  the  devotees  of  speed, 
And  oft,  by  God's  mercy,  escaped,  indeed: 
But  often  are  seen,  ere  Death  is  paid, 
These  palaces  into  shambles  made! 

Now  just  as  the  eve  was  counting  seven, 

We  halted  a  tiny  village  within : 
And  there  seemed  to  come  a  note  from  Heaven 

By  way  of  a  church-bell's  silvery  din. 
Through  drifting  torrents  and  blades  of  air, 
That  bell  was  calling  the  world  to  prayer; 
And  mid  our  hurried  and  bustling  stay, 
These  words  in  the  song  they  seemed  to  say: 

(SONG   OF   THE   CHURCH-BELL.) 

Come  to  me,  come  to  me,  you  who  are  sad  and  lone, 
You  who  knew  sorrows  of  others,  that  now  have 

become  your  own; 
You  who  greet  only  by  memory  the  friends  you  once 

have  known, 
You  who  are  walking  desolate,  tortured  by  thorns  of 

care, 
Come  to  the  house  of  prayer. 

10 


Song  of  the  Church  Bell. 

Come  to  me,  come  to  me,  you  who  in  pleasures  bright 
Drown  the  gold  hours  of  morning,  or    the    sweet 

shades  of  night; 
Oh,  you  will   feel   for  my  presence  when   trouble 

encumbers  sight! 
Joy  is  the  mother  of  sorrow:  pleasures  can  breed 

despair: 
Then  there  is  wailing  and  prayer. 

Come  to  me — come  to  me — you  who  helpless-wise, 
May  be  unable  to  come  in  the  fragile  body's  guise : 
It  is  the  spirit  that  clambers  into  the  towering  skies. 
So  though  bodies  be  prisoned,  yet  souls  in  Heaven 

may  share: 
Come  to  the  house  of  prayer. 

Come  to  me,  come  to  me,  you  who  can  only  agree 
In  the  great  lessons  of  Nature,  with  what  yourselves 

can  see; 
Pray  as  you  live — to  the  Unknown! — for  all  that  is 

yet  to  be— 
All  that  has  been — has  been  given  Mystery's  garment 

to  wear: 
Mystery's  even  in  prayer! 

Come    to    me — come    to    me — you    who    diversely 

believe ! 
Many  the  doctrines  and  fancies  that  different  natures 

weave ; 
Many  the  rafters  to  which   their  hopes  of  mercy 

cleave. 
Heaven's  great  dome  of  splendor  is  reached  by  many 

a  stair; 
Come  to  the  house  of  prayer! 

11 


Drifted   In. 

Pray  with  me,  pray  with  me,  you  who  in  toil  are 

bowed, 
You   who    are    striving    and    grieving    alone    in    a 

sneering  crowd; 
Maybe  the  lower  they  crush  you,   the  higher  the 

strength  allowed. 
Look  to  the  sky  above  you — look  to  Heaven — it  is 

there : 
Come  to  the  house  of  prayer! 


Away  again! — through  the  blinding  storm, 
Our  train  is  pushing  its  massive  form: 
Through  night — the  beautiful  wreck  of  day — 
Our  engine  valiantly  fights  its  way. 
But  still  we  could  feel  and  could  but  know, 
That  time,  unhindered  by  gale  and  snow, 
Was  star  of  the  race,  had  won  first  place, 
And  we  were  weakening  in  the  chase. 
Our  speed  grew  labored :  we  felt  the  strain 
That  clogged  the  engine;  and  all  in  vain 
It  strove  to  compass  our  journey's  need, 
And  match  with  un-wintered  days  for  speed. 
The  heave  of  its  mighty  breath  we  heard — 

We  felt  the  touch  of  its  iron  heart's  throb; 
Its  hoarse  voice  sounding  a  warning  word, 

Seemed  sometimes  wavering  like  a  sob; 
But  nought  of  a  sound  that  the  world  appals 
Came  to  us  within  our  windowed  walls. 
The  lights  were  gleaming  as  gaily  as  ever 

In  opulent  city — 'neath  palace-domes 
Whence  thrifty  courtiers,  discreet  and  clever, 

Make  rich  their  tables  and  gild  their  homes; 

12 


Drifted   In. 

Trained  trainmen,  loitering  up  and  down, 
Were  ready  to  hail  each  coming  town; 
An  old  conductor,  of  oft-proved  worth, 

With  stripes  on  his  coat-sleeve  three  and  five, 
Had  travelled  the  iron  road  back  and  forth 

For  forty  years,  and  was  still  alive, 
And  answered,  with  look  of  droll  despair, 
The  questions  fired  him  from  here  and  there; 
Trim  waiters  with  viands  hove  in  sight — 
Their  faces  black  as  their  aprons  white; 
A  dining-hall  flung  banners  about, 
As  snowy  as  any  field  without; 
With  savory  odors,  half  the  night, 
Olfactories  aided  the  appetite; 
In  book-shelves  swaying,  the  silent  tongue 
Of  literature  was  deftly  hung; 
On  our  foundation  of  wheels  there  rose 
A  temple  of  vapor-clouds,  where  those 
On  worship  of  Nicotina  bent, 
Smoke-dried  themselves  to  their  hearts'  content; 
Well-curtained  chambers  provided  place 
For  those  who  would  dream  through  miles  of  space ; 
Good  cushions  waited  the  many  there  be 
Who  think  that  slumbering  should  be  free ; 
And  warm  glad  comfort  was  speeding  through 
As  fierce  a  storm  as  the  world  oft  knew. 

Now  riding  along  these  desolate  ways, 
There  rose  a  vision  of  summer  days, 
When  green  leaves  fluttered  in  zephyred  hours, 
And  roads  were  walled  with  the  vines  and  flowers. 
And  thoughts  from  each  other  so  diverse, 
To  join  together  for  better  or  worse, 
13 


Drifted   In. 

In  moments  of  contemplation  are, 
That  I  sang 

THE   HONK   OF   THE   RAILLESS   CAR. 

Away!  away!  in  the  morning's  gray, 

At  the  cockcrow's  earliest  din: 
For  many  a  mile  we  must  make*  the  while, 

Ere  ever  the  night  rolls  in. 
No  wonder  we  pray  that  the  sun's  best  ray 

Will  follow  the  morning  star: 
For  far  and  near  must  the  echoes  hear 

The  honk  of  the  railless  car! 

Up  hill  and  down  through  country  and  town, 

Our  roadbed  ready  we  see: 
Wherever  we  choose  to  frolic  or  muse, 

A  "station"  for  us  shall  be. 
No  frowns  upon  earth  our  honest  mirth 

Can  ever  dispel  or  bar: 
We  mingle  with  smiles  and  generous  wiles, 

The  honk  of  the  railless  car. 

Past  the  farmhouse  old,  and  tales  oft  told 

Of  mingling  of  death  and  life — 
Through  villages  quaint  where  sinner  and  saint 

Are  dwelling  in  peaceful  strife, 
Along  the  lake  with  mirrors  that  make 

Our  pictures  that  ripples  mar, 
We  hurry  along  with  jesting  and  song, 

And  the  honk  of  the  railless  car. 

And  little  we  need  in  our  headlong  speed, 
A  welcome  to  ask  or  seek, 

14 


The  Honk  of  the  Railless  Car. 

Save  maybe  some  showers  of  children's  flowers, 
For  the  candies  we  brought  last  week; 

E'en  horses  have  learned  to  be  unconcerned, 
And  eyes  are  no  more  ajar 

With  drivers'  rage  we  can  not  assuage, 
At  the  honk  of  the  railless  car. 

Away,  away,  in  the  dawn  of  day, 

In  the  forenoon  smiling  fair! 
Let  us  be  in  tune  with  the  strength  of  noon, 

And  the  evening's  soft  sweet  air. 
Let  us  study  the  rights  through  days  and  nights, 

Of  those  who  our  brothers  are : 
Till  all  the  earth  will  welcome  its  worth, 

And  honk  with  the  railless  car! 


And  then  I  pondered  how  far  and  wide 

Grow  men  and  women  who,  malcontent 
To  use  the  gifts  that  the  gods  provide, 

Must  needs  abuse  them  as  soon  as  sent: 
Who,  if  they  were  throned  in  the  highest  heavens, 
Would  soon  have  things  at  sixes  and  sevens, 
And  try  a  progress  through  that  bright  air, 
As  peacock-angels,  to  overbear 
With  wonder  the  people  already  there. 
That  process  was  tried  by  one  who  now 
Would  use  Heaven's  breezes  to  fan  his  brow, 
If  he  could  get  them — instead  of  trying 
To  use  them  in  spectacular  flying. 

As  I  so  mused  on  that  wintry  night, 
The  following  dream  hove  into  sight: 

15 


Drifted  In. 
(THE  GOLDEN  DEVIL.) 

He  built  him  a  toy  of  the  strongest  steel 
That  lurks  in  lever  or  whirls  in  wheel; 
He  tricked  it  off  with  the  finest  gold 
That  clouds  can  flutter  or  caves  can  hold: 
He  gathered  the  lightning's  magic  juice, 
To  push  it  on  to  its  fleetest  use; 
And  then  with  a  thought  to  grimly  praise 
This  chariot-child  of  the  modern  days, 
He  called  it  the  "Golden  Devil." 

And  through  the  city  by  night  and  day, 
The  prince  of  Juggernauts  sped  its  way; 
As  if  it  were  some  demonic  shape 
Immersed  in  the  process  of  escape. 
Twixt  humblest  hovels  and  loftiest  roofs 
The  whispered  tread  of  its  rubber  hoofs 
Was  drowned  by  the  horn's  loud  tocsin  tones, 
And  creak  of  its  massive  metal  bones, 
Which  held  the  tidings  of  pain  and  dread, 
But  could  not  carry  them  far  ahead. 
Twere  best  for  the  humbler  human  clay, 
To  mind  its  manners  and  clear  the  way! 
What  room  for  the  poor  plebeian  feet, 
When  Wealth  was  frolicking  down  the  street? 
A  boy  was  hurt — diminutive  fact, 
With  several  million  boys  intact! 
An  old  man  killed — he  had  years  four-score, 
And  what  did  he  need  of  any  more? 
A  wife  was  crushed  to  the  blood-stained  ground- 
But  wives  are  many  and  easy- found; 
Grim  Justice— hurried  along  the  track- 
Was  met  by  Money  and  motioned  back; 

16 


The  Golden  Devil. 

And — skies  a-sunny  or  skies  a-fair — 
The  son  of  the  son  of  a  millionaire 
Pursued  his  giddy  revel. 

Away  to  the  country  roads  and  lanes! 
Where  consternation  rewards  the  pains 
Of  wealthy  donkeys  who,  it  appears, 
Use  surplus  money  to  hide  their  ears, 
And  raise  a  public  clatter  and  din 
Their  natural  parts  could  never  win. 
On  paths  that  seldom  had  heard  the  tread 
Of  modern  traffic,  the  monster  sped — 
Through  lengths  of  the  dreamy  village  street, 

Through  country  avenues,  quickly  cool; 
It  grazes  the  arching  elm-tree's  feet, 

It  pictures  its  length  in  the  clear  wide  pool, 
It  greets  the  homes  of  the  forest-elves, 
Of  nature's  gardens  that  train  themselves, 
It  skirts  wide  acres  thrifty  and  trim, 
And  yonder  the  mountain's  jagged  rim, 
And  farther,  above  the  peaks  and  fells, 
The  high  cloud-domes  with  their  thunder-bells; 
But  what  is  the  blue  and  green  and  gold, 
By  Nature's  liberal  hand  unrolled, 
To  him  who,  jealous  of  show  and  speed, 
Is  holding  the  rein  of  this  rushing  steed, 
If  miles  will  dwindle  and  people  stare? 
The  son  of  the  son  of  a  millionaire 

Is  "running"  the  Golden  Devil. 

A  girl  with  tresses  of  fine-spun  gold, 
Not  more  than  three  bright  summers  old, 
A  pattern  of  every  guiltless  wile, 
A  winsome  bit  of  a  toddling  smile, 

17 


Drifted   In. 

Is  coming — a  host  of  unconscious  charms — 
From  her  grandame's  house  to  her  mother's  arms, 
And  bearing  along,  through  sunny  hours, 
Herself,  and  another  bouquet  of  flowers. 
How  little  that  sweet  one  could  suppose 

There  was  needed  the  place  wherein  she  put 

The  faint  impress  of  her  tiny  foot; 
That  her  breath,  as  sweet  as  the  freshest  rose, 
Her  dainty  form  and  her  loving  face — 
Had  not  in  God's  wide-spread  world  a  place 
Each  moment,  wherein  to  live! — but  no! 
A  flash  and  a  yell  and  a  scream — and  lo, 
A  mangled  form  and  a  cold  blank  face 
Are  all  that  wait  for  a  father's  embrace, 
Or  a  mother's  kiss!     Comes  a  backward  cry — 
"Bad  accident— Sorry— Send  bill— Good-bye ! 
"The  chief  of  the  Golden  Devil." 

Now  Satan,  greedy  of  every  word 
From  off  this  globe,  of  his  namesake  heard; 
And  followed  the  car  of  golden  sheen, 
And  rode  along  by  its  side  unseen. 
Scant  need  to  voice  an  evident  truth — 
He  fell  in  love  with  the  gilded  youth; 
And  vowed,  ere  many  a  moon  had  flown, 
He  would  have  his  soul  for  his  very  own. 
So,  shrewdly  guessing  that  he  could  pay 
A  better  homage  outside  the  clay, 
He  deemed  he  should  be  a  gilded  wreck, 
And  took  due  measures  to  break  his  neck, 
And  give  him  his  proper  level. 

Now  when,  in  her  dreary  cradle  of  clay, 
The  little  maiden  was  wept  away, 

18 


The  Golden  Devil 

The  mother  turned  with  a  shattered  brain 
And  vowed  her  vengeance:  and  not  in  vain 
The  devil  whispered  to  her  his  plan 
To  speed  his  scheming  and  catch  his  man. 
With  maniac  cunning  and  new-found  knack, 
She  learned  his  comings  and  traced  his  track: 
And,  one  dark  night  of  a  stormy  day, 
Unbridged  a  precipice  in  his  way. 
On  rushed  the  toy  to  the  breach! — whereat 
It  reared-— and  tumbled — and  plunged:  and  that 
Was  the  last  of  the  Golden  Devil. 


Just  now  we  stopped  at  a  tiny  town — 
(For  taking  travelers  up  and  down, 
And,  as  one  lady  referred  to  it, 
"Refreshing  the  engine  a  little  bit"), 
And  just  as  our  caravan's  bulky  form 
Was  braving  again  the  desert  of  storm, 
A  thrifty  husbandman  climbed  aboard, 
With  numerous  cargoes  of  snowflakes  stored; 
And  walking  the  car's  short  tilting  street 

With  steps  unwontedly  insecure, 
He  tumbled  his  coat  on  a  corner-seat — 

An  avalanche  made  in  miniature — 
And  with  my  gesture  and  look  complied, 
And  came  and  sat  by  my  humble  side. 

Men  always  in  wisdom  talk,  if  so 

Their  words  are  guided  'mid  things  they  know: 

For  wisdom  is  mostly  what  is  learned 

From  matters  again  and  again  discerned. 

19 


Drifted   In. 

And  this  plain  man,  with  his  sunburned  face 
Whose  brandings  winter  could  not  efface, 
And  ancient  hat  that  would  not  enhance 

The  beauty  of  humblest  nail  or  shelf, 
And  clothes  with  a  fit  that  would  throw,  perchance, 

A  city  dude  into  fits  himself, 
And  grammar  at  which,  in  pathetic  plaint, 
Poor  Lindley  Murray  might  "throw"  a  faint, 
Was  still  with  a  wealth  of  facts  endowed, 
Of  which  a  novelist  might  be  proud. 
And  'mid  some  others  that  one  might  name, 
The  following  singular  story  came: 


(AUTO  AND  SAINT.) 


We  called  him  The  Saint:  for  a  better  mule 

Has  never  been  knowed  sense  time  begun ! 
If  any  quadr'ped  broke  a  rule 

Concernin'  kickin',  he  was  the  one. 
Why  bless  my  soul,  you  could  stan'  aroun' 
An'  hold  him  up,  an'  curry  him  down, 
An'  wag  his  tail  for  to  make  him  smile, 
An'  tickle  his  heels  a  good  long  while, 
An'  pull  his  ears  fur  to  wag  his  head, 

An'  open  his  mouth  to  inquire  his  age, 
Or  anything  else  on  'arth  instead, 

That  will  the  reg'lar  mule  enrage, 
An'  cause  it,  maybe,  with  steam  to  spare, 
To  make  a  curvatoor  in  the  air, 
An'  he  would'nt  show  fur  a  single  minnit, 
He  thought  there  was  aught  irreg'lar  in  it : 
He'd  just  stan'  still  an'  wink  his  eyes 
20 


Auto  and  Saint. 

With  mebby  a  bit  of  mild  surprise, 
An'  seem  to  say,  "My  thanks  are  due, 

Which  same  I  hope  you  will  now  receive, 
For  takin'  the  pains,  with  kindness  true, 

A  mule's  monotony  to  relieve." 
So  of'n  I  said,  when  he  asked — some  fool  did — 

What  sum  would  tempt  me  The  Saint  to  part-with, 
"No  money'll  buy  him: — if  ever  a  mule  did, 

He  hed  religion  himself,  to  start-with!" 

Well,  be  this  matter  as't  may'nt  or  may, 

I  was  ridin'  The  Saint  to  town  one  day, 

An'  noticin'  how  he  minced  along, 

As  'fraid  perhaps  that  he  might  step  wrong, 

Still  piously  gazin'  here"  an'  there, 

As  lookin'  through  Nature  up  somewhere: 

An'  I  says,  "If  it  warn't  fur  your  ears,  I'd  swear 

You  warn't  a  mule ! — but  I  still  declare 

A  decent  mule  is  better  of  course 

Than  any  wild  rantankerous  horse." 

Wai,  so  we  wended  an'  wended  our  way, 
Together  sojournin',  as  one  might  say — 
Till  up  the  turnpike  a  furlong  or  two, 
An  oughter  mobillious  came  into  view! 
An'  The  Saint  he  halted  as  if  he  was  shot, 
An'  stuffed,  an'  stood  up  at  that  same  spot. 
An'  I  says,  "Git  out  o'  here,  mule  alive! 

Them  fellers  with  oughters,  they  own  the  road!" 
But  he  would  not  lead,  an'  he  would  not  drive, 

An'  paid  no  heed  to  his  livin'  load. 
An'  the  oughter  it  guv  a  sort  of  a  bray, 
An'  they  shouted  hoarsely,  "Get  out  of  the  way!" 

21 


Drifted  In. 

An'  I  says  "My  friends,  I'll  try  my  best, 
But  you  an'  the  mule  must  do  the  rest. 
He  never  re'ly  his  whole  life  o'er, 
Has  seed  an  oughter  mobillious  before; 
It's  the  first  long  stare  that  he  ever  took, 
An'  he  probably  wants  a  good  straight  look: 
An'  then  he'll  go  on,  demure  and  meek, 
An'  think  of  it  all  the  rest  the  week. 
However  to  start  him  now  I  strive, 
He  wull  not  lead,  an'  he  wull  not  drive: 
An'  ef  you  can  steer  aroun'  the  beast, 
An'  tip  yer  mobillious  the  very  least, 
He'll  jest  inspect  it  as  you  pass  by, 
An'  go  'long  peacefully — him  an'  I." 


But  the  shafferer  shouted  "Look  out  fur  paint!" 
An'  he  run  his  machine  right  on  to  The  Saint. 
An'  The  Saint  he  turned,  an'  the  off  Front  wheel 
Came  scrapin'  along  on  his  handiest  heel; 
An'  he  give  that  tire  a  terrible  whack 
That  started  it  several  furlongs  back 
To'rds  the  rubber-tree  on  which  it  grew; 
An'  he  guv  the  wheel  his  compliments,  too, 
An'  he  ses  to  the  other  one,  "Git  you  hence !" 
An'  he  put  the  shafferer  through  the  fence, 
An'  he  smashed  the  rudder  with  which  they  steer, 
An'  the  little  long  basket  that  holds  the  beer, 
An'  he  sent  the  lamps  to  the  shinin'  shore, 
An'  the  whistle  that  brayed  at  him  jest  before; 
An'  he  ripped  the  interior  of  that  machine, 
Till  the  clouds  was  drippin'  with  gasoline ; 
An'  I  tried  through  his  morals  to  intercede, 
But  he  wud  not  drive  an'  he  wud  not  lead, 
22 


'IT'S    THE    FIRST    BIG    STARE    THAT    HE    EVER    TOOK" 


Auto  and  Saint. 

An'  he  seemed  till  then  to  hev  kep'  in  store 

The  kicks  he'd  gathered  five  years  or  more. 

An'  I  hollered  "Git  up!"  an'  I  hollered  "Whoa!" 

But  he  wud  not  stop,  an'  he  wud  not  go; 

An'  the  oughter  mobillious  he  pranced  aroun', 

As  ef  'twas  a  sort  o'  a  circus-groun', 

An*  with  impartiality  strict, 

From  ev'ry  p'int  o'  the  compass  kicked. 

He  turned  one  "ex"  to  a  letter  s, 

The  other  to  two  or  three,  I  guess; 

Divided  the  figgers  behind  'em,  too, 

In  a  way  the  'rethmetic  could  not  do; 

An'  made  things  look  in  gen'ral  as 

No  railroad-collision  ever  has. 

The  passengers  scampered  from  side  to  side 
In  a  manner  very  undignified; 
They  hollered  "Whoa!"  to  that  catapult, 
The  same's  I  did,  with  the  same  result; 
They  tried  to  shoot  him  in  humane  style — 
He  kicked  their  pistol  the  eighth  of  a  mile! 
An'  a  woman,  pr'tty  an'  delicate-shaped 
(She  was  one  of  the  passengers  that  escaped) 
Perched  on  a  fence,  with  bewitchin'  grin, 
An'  shouted  "Teddy!— a  trust!  go  in!" 
An'  the  owner  he  muttered,  after  a  spell, 
"Three  thousan'  dollars  gone  straight  to — sell 
For  junk,  through  a  lack  o'  proper  schools 
To  train  the  heels  of  refractory  mules!" 

An'  I  says  "I  done  the  best  I  could, 
An'  he's  al'ays  been  pertic'lar  good, 
An'  I  think  ef  you  look  at  his  tracks  you'll  find 
He  gin  ye  yer  half  of  the  road  at  first, 
23 


Drifted   In. 

An'  if  to  the  same  you'd  be'en  resigned, 
Things  never'd  hev  gone  from  bad  to  worst.1 

Then  The  Saint  he  winked  his  meekest  eye, 

As  ef  to  say  "We  hed  best  proceed": 
An'  biddin'  the  shipwrecked  folks  good  bye, 

I  sojourned  off  on  my  humble  steed. 
"But  who'll  pay  for  this?"  I  heerd  them  cry. 
"Silver  an'  gold  hev  I  none,"  says  I, 
"But  I  always  practice  the  golden  rule, 

An'  travel  along  on  a  level  track; 
An'  ef  you  say  so,  I'll  give  ye  the  mule." 

"Not  on  his  birthday!"  they  hollered  back. 


When  once  again  in  the  shrieking  night, 

My  late  seat-partner  was  gone  from  sight, 

I  mused  of  a  lately  vanished  week, 

When  some  of  the  lands  now  white  and  bleak, 

Were  harvested  not  by  ice-edged  cold, 

But  blades  that  garnered  the  wheat's  pure  gold. 

Could  Nature  a  better  instance  give 
Of  contrasts  helping  our  Earth  to  live? 
For  constant  change  makes  fuller  the  breath, 
But  constant  sameness  savors  of  death. 

'Twas  meet  perchance,  while  toiling  along, 
To  sing  in  my  mind  a 

HARVEST   SONG. 

Harvest  of  old!  through  gold  mines  of  the  peasant, 
Delved  thy  forged  sickle — a  silvery  crescent; 
24 


Harvest  Song. 

In  the  cool  breeze  or  the  thick  sultry  weather, 
Toiled  the  strong  lad  and  the  maiden  together. 
Winsomeness  into  the  Eden-curse  bringing, 
Oft  did  they  charm  sober  toil  with  their  singing; 
Then  when  the  harvest-moon  rose  in  its  splendor, 
Homeward  they   fared,   oft  with  words  that  were 

tender, 

As  through  the  silver-strown  song's  gallant  measures, 
Rumbled  the  wains  with  their  rich  golden  treasures. 

Harvest  less  old!  still  the  memory  lingers 
Of  thy  broad  blade  with  its  tapering  fingers; 
How  as  it  swung  came  the  tremulous  sighing 
Of  the  trim  grain-plants  so  suddenly  dying! 
How,  a  rude  music  that  baffles  forgetting, 
Rang  out  the  song  of  the  scythe  in  its  whetting! 
How  the  glum  toiler  or  jest-loving  fellow 
Lunched  in  a  shade  of  their  wide  camps  of  yellow, 
Gossiping  e'en  as  does  oft  lovely  woman — 
Showing  that  both  of  the  sexes  are  human! 

Harvests  today!  through  the  grain-forest  sweeping 
Comes  like  a  cyclone,  an  engine  of  reaping. 
Reaper,  and  gleaner  and  old-fashioned  peasant 
Flee  from  this  monster — grim  child  of  the  present; 
Sickle  and  scythe,  and  the  flail  for  the  threshing 
Fused  into  wheels,  through  the  meadows  go  crashing. 
All  of  the  harvest-songs  vanish  before  us, 
Blended  and  lost  in  this  grand  metal  chorus. 
Such  are  the  harvests  these  rushing  days  fling  us: 
What  will  the  twentieth  century  bring  us? 


The  night  grew  older:  and  such  as  chose 
Sought  curtained  couches  for  their  repose, 

25 


Drifted   In. 

And,  grouping  in  unacquainted  pairs, 

Some  crept  to  beds  unwontedly  low, 
Some  clung  to  the  steep  step-ladder's  stairs, 

Themselves  in  flying  garrets  to  stow; 
And  some  went  wandering  in  delight 

Through  gardens  of  bliss:  some  pain-pursued, 
Were  riding  or  ridden  by  mares  of  night, 

According  as  stomachs  were  bad  or  good. 
And  slumbering  silently  sweet  were  some, 
And  others  snoring  the  engine  dumb. 

And  one,  a  dreamer  e'en  when  awake, 

Still  followed  his  fancy  to  summer  hours, 
He  thought  of  mountain,  and  sea  and  lake, 

With  all  of  their  mid-year  thorns  and  flowers; 
So  into  his  mind  in  measures  came 

A  happening,  five  short  months  before, 
In  which  one  couple  he  would  not  name, 

A  night  not  quite  monotonous  bore: 

(THE  BABES  AND  THE  BULL.) 

Why  grumble  or  sneer  because  those  who  aspire 
To  Fashion's  gay  vapors,  wear  garments  of  fire? 
Hasn't  Nature  her  colors? — There's  many  a  flower 
That  flaunts  out  with  red,  both  in  sunshine  and  shower. 
The  poppies,  the  roses,  the  hollyhocks,  dress 
In  goods  that  a  love  for  the  startling  express; 
The  lightning's  oft  crimson  that  pierces  and  bruises; 
The  sun  paints  the  firmament  red,  when  he  chooses; 
So  when  by  style,  fancy,  or  phantasy  led, 
Why  should  not  Humanity  bloom  out  in  red? 

These  thoughts  hovered  'round  a.  young  lady,  one  day, 

As  she  walked  through  the  fields  in  apparel  so  gay, 

26 


The  Babes  and  the  Bull. 

That  Solomon's  milliners  glum  would  have  sat, 
And  murmured,  "We  never  can  come  up  to  that." 
It  was  a  young  maiden  whose  father  had  struck 
Some  cash-worthy  kind  of  commercial  good  luck, 
Some  poison,  or  trap,  or  explosive,  that  rats  kills; 
And  so  they  were  posing  a  month  in  the  Catskills, 
And  living  in  Wealth's  costly  glamor  and  clamor, 
With  fifty-odd  times  as  much  glitter  as  grammar. 


And  yielding  to  customs  quite  prevalent  there, 
This  maid  had  a  costume  as  red  as  her  hair. 
And  with  her  an  Englishman  wandered;  and  he 
Was  searching  a  fortune  this  side  of  the  sea 
(Thus  making  of  him  a  financial  young  "jingo") ; 
And  he  had  a  coat  that  would  scare  a  flamingo. 
Together  this  pair  through  the  bypaths  were  wandering, 
Two  red  human  flames:  and  were  vocally  pondering 
(Her  name  was  Dolphina,  and  his  was  Adolph) 
Of  themes  of  importance  connected  with  Golf, 
And  what  profane  search  for  the  ball  had  hejr  daddy, 
One  day  when  attempting  to  be  his  own  caddy; 
And  how  her  poor  mamma,  with  force  to  appal, 
Hit  the  corn  that  was  sorest  instead  of  the  ball; 
And  how  a  young  lover  grew  softer  and  softer, 
Until  he  didn't  know  a  sand-box  from  a  lofter; 
And  how  a  fat  lady  struck  ghosts  in  the  air, 
And  perched  on  a  rock,  with  momentum  to  spare; 
And  how  a  good  parson,  with  fury  unstinted, 
Drove  his  ball  in  the  wall,  with  a  word  rarely  printed. 
And  then  with  a  dash — and  of  other  small  matters 
That  make  up  material  for  every-day  chatters. 
Now  e'en  while  her  maidenish  eloquence  bound  him, 
The  Englishman  took  an  uneasy  glance  'round  him, 
27 


Drifted   In. 

And  said,  as  if  time  were  a  thing  he  might  squander, 
"May  I  ausk  what's  that  animal  coming  out  yonder?" 
The  maiden  a  moment  revolved  her  trim  bright  head : 
"It's  a  bull!"  she  loud  screeched,  and  then  "ran  like 

a  whitehead." 

And  the  Englishman  also :  not  swayed  by  fear's  passion, 
But  simply  determined  to  follow  the  fashion. 
If  she  ran,  then  he  ran;  if  she  stopped,  then  he  did; 
That's  fashion's  rule,  put  in  a  nutshell  when  needed. 

The  bull  was  one  fitted  with  Spaniards  to  battle: 

A  regular  built  roaring  lion  of  cattle, 

I  may  say,  while  our  redbirds  fly  thick  through  the 

brambles : 

His  ancestors,  mad  from  the  blood  of  the  shambles, 
And  knowing,  howe'er  gay  their  life-page  began, 
They  would  all  of  them  some  day  be  murdered  by  man, 
Whene'er  of  the  fact  by  blood's  color  reminded, 
They  rushed  for  the  same,  with  their  moral  sense 

blinded; 

And  thus  do  they  ever:  though  madly,  sincerely 
Regarding  our  species  as  cannibals,  merely, 
And  that  is  "heredity" — drawn  very  nearly. 

Thus  onward  he  came,  in  his  rage-livened  folly: 
Rushing  down  through  the  field  like  a  car  on  the 

trolley ; 

His  head  bowing  low  as  the  fenders  they  bear, 
And  his  tail  like  the  wire-stick  that  drags  through 

the  air. 
And  his  game — how  they  ran!  not  the  crafty  and 

cunning 

Zoological  firebrands  that  Samson  set  running 
Through  wheatfields  of  foes  in  his  anger  sublime, 
28 


.      The  Babes  and  the  Bull. 

Though  more  tl.ere  were  of  them — could  make  better 

time. 

The  Englishman  struggled  o'er  boulders  and  ditches, 
And  grieved   at  the   thorns  that  were  tearing  his 

stitches 

That  kept  on  his  red  coat — still  muttering  low: 
"This  is  very  peculiar,  indeed,  don't  you  know!" 
And  the  maid,  like  Dave  Harum,  exclaimed  "Scat 

my  cats! 

I  wish  he  had  some  of  our  'Beverage  for  Rats'!" 
And  then,  like  a  red-squirrel,  climbed  to  a  tree; 
And  "you  take  that  other  one  yonder!"  screamed  she. 

"Thanks!  I  will!"  said  the  Englishman:  "just  in  good 

time ! 

It's  quite  opportune;  but  a  beastly  hard  climb! 
I  hope  you  are  comfortable  there;  and  you're 
Ah — what  do  you  call  it?  stuck  up,  now,  for  sure!" 

While  the  bull,  with  a  rage  his  thick  hide  could  not 

smother, 

Would  rush  up  at  one  tree,  and  then  at  the  other, 
And  make  all  the  grass  and  the  pebbles  and  sand 

slide 

In  terrible  ways  that  portended  a  landslide; 
And  writhed  at  the  lightnings  of  anger  that  spurred 

him, 
And  thundered  so  half  of  the  town  might  have  heard 

him. 

But  none  of  it  did,  for  a  rain-cloud  had  come: 
Not  a  giant  of  storms  striking  other  sounds  dumb, 
But  a  slow  droning  drizzle,  unaided  by  breeze, 
That  came  by  inquisitive  drops  through  the  trees, 
29 


Drifted   In. 

And  spattered  these  children  of  fashion  and  lucre, 
And  drove  all  their  friends  to  bridge,  gossip,  and 

euchre, 

And  dancing  and  flirting — both  aged  and  young, 
Unmindful  of  field-sports;  so  there  the  two  hung, 
Each  one  to  a  tree-limb;  and  still  did  the  bull 
Hang  'round  them,  of  rage  and  celerity  full. 

And  there  stayed  the  three  till  the  daylight  had  gone, 
And  there  hung  the  three  when  the  morning  came 

on; 

For  while  the  two  victims  in  terror  sat  nigh, 
The  bull  lay  and  dreamed,  with  red  blood  in  his  eye; 
While  a  party  of  search  through  the  wide  country 

groped 
To  find  the  young  pair  that  so  strangely  eloped. 

But  when   morning  peeped  on   them   tattered   and 

jaded, 

The  red  of  their  robes  was  so  ragged  and  faded, 
The  bull  saw  no  sight  to  be  angry  or  glum  for, 
And  went  away  wondering  what  he  had  come  for. 


Then  having  delivered  this  pair  from  night 

And  bovine  bondage,  the  dreamer  turned 
A  fascet,  at  which  the  electric  light 

That  Franklin  found  for  us,  o'er  him  burned; 
And  delving  in  books  more  merry  than  deep, 
Soon  found  himself  in  the  cellars  of  sleep. 
And  something  about  the  storm's  fierce  waves, 

And  train's  roar,  led  him  to  dream  that  he 
On  rough  shore-edges  of  liquid  graves, 

Was  holding  a 

30 


Converse  with  the  Sea. 

CONVERSE   WITH    THE   SEA. 

What  hast  thott  in  thy  treasure-house,  O  Sea? — 

A  thousand  rivers  long  and  deep  and  wide, 

Once  rivulets  upon  the  mountain-side, 

That  wandered  through  the  fields  and  glens,  to  me. 

So  gathered  they,  as  thrifty  trav'lers  do, 

Somewhat  of  all  the  lands  they  journeyed  through: 

The  cavern's  roar,  the  valley's  lisping  song, 

The  dripping  cliffs  with  thunder  loud  and  long, 

The  man-made  mills,  the  clatter  and  turmoil 

Of  wheels  that  yoked  their  dancing  floods  to  toil: 

They  brought  me  them,  and  gave  me  them  to  keep, 

Till  sun  or  gale  should  rouse  them  from  their  sleep. 

What  hast  thou  in  thy  hands,  O  gentle  Sea? — 
Refreshing  showers  that  shortly  will  arise, 
Inveigled  by  the  sun,  to  seek  the  skies — 
Then  from  his  passion-wooing  strangely  free, 
Return  unto  the  eager  earth  awhile, 
To  glad  the  blooms,  and  bid  the  forest  smile. 
For  never  tree  or  flower  could  love  or  live, 
But  for  the  strength  my  god-like  missions  give. 
Cool  zephyrs  have  I  that  'mid  summer  heat, 
Will  fan  the  world,  and  bless  whome'er  they  meet; 
And  gales  that  push  their  sharp  blades  everywhere, 
And  cut  the  poison  from  the  withered  air. 

What  hast  thou  in  thy  shifting  tides,  O'  Sea?— 

A  thousand  storms,  that  peacefully  could  lie 

In  their  cloud-hammocks  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky, 

Forgetting  that  to  drift  is  scarce  to  be. 

And  now  in  slumber,  now  in  seeming  mirth, 

They  floated  idly  o'er  the  dappled  earth: 

31 


Drifted   In. 

Until  a  messenger  of  strife  there  came, 
That  gathered  all  the  air  in  flood  and  flame, 
And  brought  the  floating  cannon's  lordly  sound, 
And  made  the  startled  sky  a  battle-ground: 
Till,  tired  of  strife,  they  sought  a  needful  rest, 
And  flung  themselves  upon  my  willing  breast. 

What  hast  thou  on  thy  rugged  floors,  O  Sea? — 
A  million  ships,  that  ploughed  my  yielding  spray, 
All  bearing  hope  for  many  a  merry  day: 
A  hope  that  had  not  learned  of  Fate's  decree. 
How  little,  when  the  shallops  leave  a  place, 
Can  mind  or  soul  their  future  moorings  trace: 
If  they  shall  touch  the  ocean's  edge  once  more, 
Or,  sinking,  seek  my  underlying  shore, 
That  has  a  myriad  fleets  that  rot  away — 
Themselves  their  cumbrous  anchors — day  by  day! 
You    wonder    if    their    ghosts    have  skimmed  the 

waves  ? — 
It  is  not  mine  to  answer: — ask  their  graves. 

What  hast  thou  that  is  firm,  O  tossing  Sea? — 
Fair  refuge-islands — where  you  mortals  find 
A  help  to  soothe  the  weary  heart  and  mind; 
To  my  protection,  all  the  world  may  flee ! 
I  toss  as  feathered  toys  upon  my  hands, 
The  ocean-birds  that  brood  in  all  the  lands, 
But  give  them  homes  in  many  a  rocky  nest, 
Where  they  in  firm  tranquillity  can  rest; 
I  nurture  in  my  realms  of  drowning  space, 
The  island-builders  of  the  coral  race: — 
Where  find  you  more  of  firmness  than  in  me? 
For  God  Himself  doth  walk  upon  the  Sea. 


The   Ghost-Walk. 

And  then — so  many  the  different  ways 

Our  minds  are  led,  in  the  realm  of  dreams! 
There  rose  a  glimpse  of  the  college  days, 

And  reminiscence  in  sparkling  streams, 
E'en  flooded  the  mind:  and  thus  once  more, 
The  following  "doings"  were  acted  o'er, 
Which  seem  so  small  and  frivolous  now! 

But  looked  so  large  and  momentous  then, 
That  fathers  of  students,  with  careworn  brow, 

Have  thought  it  over  and  over  again, 
And  hoped  these  children  whose  good  they  sought, 
Would  never  in  such  affairs  be — caught: 

(THE  GHOST-WALK.) 

College    commencements    I    sing! — where   students, 

their  long  courses  finished, 
Meet    for    commencing    another,    with    confidence 

slightly  diminished; 

Meet  to  go  out  in  the  great  world  with  new  compe 
tition  quivering; 
Stand  on  the  warm  college-threshold,  and  view  the 

bleak  prospect  with  shivering. 
Ah!  how    they    wish,    then,    their    time    had    been 

garnered  with  better  precision! 
Memory  looks  at  them  edgewise,  and  smiles  with 

good-natured  derision. 
Still  she  must  pardon  some  slips,  if  inclined  to  be 

perfectly  truthful: 
God  in  His  kindness  decreed,  that  'twas  proper  for 

youth  to  be  youthful. 

Flutters  of  flowers  and  of  ribbons!  how  plainly  the 
June  college-measures 
33 


Drifted   In. 

Bring  back  the  dear  adolescence,  with  all  of  its 
plagues  and  its  pleasures ! 

How  do  the  sunbeams  of  mid-June  shine  back  to 
the  days,  when  as  students 

Gaily  we  pranced  through  the  sunlight,  with  boy 
hood's  delicious  imprudence! 

How  does  the  thrill  hurry  back,  of  midnight  assem 
blings  mysterious — 

Where  foolish  pranks  were  concocted  with  business 
ability  serious! 

Think  you,  because  you  are  aged,  and  your  circu 
lation  needs  forcing, 

Youth's  irrepressible  blood-cells  no  more  like  a 
racehorse  are  coursing? 

Boys  should  be  boyish,  says  Nature,  as  long  as 
their  boyhood  stays  by  them: 

Oftentimes,  far  in  life's  journey,  their  friskiness 
yet  lingers  nigh  them. 

Pranks  most  deliciously  foolish  sometimes  help  the 
system,  most  wisely; 

Earth  must  have  more  or  less  nonsense,  or  else  it 
would  roll  too  precisely. 

Still,  when  it  comes  to  this  hazing,  that  worries  the 
colleges  yearly, 

None  with  mature  sense  of  order,  but  always  con 
demns  it  sincerely. 

Why  is  the  world  full  of  hazing? — set  sleuths  the 

great  mystery  tracking. 
Seldom    a    nook    on  this  planet,  where  wholly  the 

process  is  lacking. 
Townsman  is  hazirig  his  townsman;  the  brother  oft 

hazes  his  brother: 

34 


The  Ghost-Walk. 

Most  of  the  people,  in  some  way,  are  constantly 

hazing  each  other. 
Wall  Street  its  bulls  and  its  bears  makes  friendly 

while  some  new  arrival 
Takes  his  "rough  house"  with  shrewd  patience,  and 

grins  at  his  hat's  non-survival; 
Shop-toilers   perpetrate    tricks   on    new  mates,  with 

amiable  meanness; 

Newest    arrivals    thus    roasting,  with  view  to  cor 
recting  their  greenness. 
Gossips  keep  worrying  the  world,   in   language  of 

various  phrasing: 
Surely,  if  "Life  is  a  school",  part  of  the  tuition  is 

hazing. 
(All  of  which   facts  the  subscriber,  though   loving: 

good  fun  rather  dearly, 
Must  in  the  int'rests  of  order,  condemn  and  regret 

most  sincerely.) 


Zadoch    F.   Jones   was    a   student  whose    face    for 

existence  begged  pardon; 
Smooth  as  a  well's  placid  surface,  and  fresh  as  the 

shrubs  of  a  garden 
Grown    for    domestic    consumption:  'twas  sad  that 

such  sacch'rine  completeness 
Ever  should  go  where  the  sour  world  could  mar  its 

delectable  sweetness; 
Sad  that  such  pure  milk  of  kindness  be  soiled  by 

the  world's  reckless  fury ! 
(His   habitatio    prima   was    somewhere    in    farther 

Missouri.) 

35 


Drifted   In. 

That   this   young    man    from  Missouri  be  "shown" 

through  the  proper  instruction, 
Hazers  to  all  of  their  antics  took  part  in  a  prompt 

introduction. 
Woke    him    at    midnight   for  breakfast;  compelled 

terpsichorean  capers; 
Sent   him    to    church    the    first    Sabbath,  with  hair 

done  up  neatly  in  papers; 
Made  him  a  night-muffled  factor  in  property-right- 

ings  and  wrongings; 
Bade   him   take   chickens   to   chapel   secured   from 

professors'  belongings; 
Hoisted  him,  tied  on  a  ladder,  in  spite  of  intense 

objurgations, 
Up  to  a  window  that  sheltered  a  spinster  of  two 

generations ; 
Made    him    of    bouquets  and  flowers  the  generous 

and  happy  possessor, 
Which  he  in  kindness  should  leave  for  the  wife  of  a 

bach'lor  professor; 
Put   him   through    sham    'nitiations,   with    "f raters" 

around  him  thick-thronging — 
Taught  him  th;  clan  "sign" — two  thumbs  and  eight 

fingers  his  slim  ears  prolonging; 
Swore  him  to  always  resist  the  behests  of  his  stern 

Alma  Mater, 
Put  him  through  blindfolded  stunts,  and  enthroned 

him  in  tubs  of  cold  water; 
"Cut  his  throat"  fiercely  with  ice,  and  then  fed  him 

an  "angle-worm"  diet, 
Made  out  of  hot  macaroni;  assessed  him  the  money 

to  buy  it; 

36 


The  Ghost-Walk. 

Placed  him  blindfolded  in  windows,  with  well-de 
scribed  "distances"  under — 

Pushed  him  out — safe  on  the  floor — prepared  to  be 
riven  in  sunder; 

(All  of  which  antics  are  mentioned  that  they  may  be 
censured  austerely, 

And  to  affirm  the  stern  statement  that  they  should 
be  punished  severely.) 

Smoked  with  him  one  pleasant  evening — some 
dozen  or  two  of  the  "knowing", 

Filled  his  small  room  with  the  vapors  of  all  the 
worst  weeds  that  were  growing ; 

Till  he  to  Saint  Nicotina,  while  most  of  the  company 
blessed  her, 

Gave  up  good  shares  of  his  meals  that  pertained  to 
the  current  semester; 

Till  the  name  ribald  folk  give,  to  the  men  of  Mis 
souri's  creation, 

Had  in  this  youthful  exponent,  an  ultra-pronounced 
illustration. 

So  he  lay  down  on  his  bed,  as  white  as  its  pillow 
case,  nearly, 

(Pitied,  e'en  now,  by  good  people,  who  view  such 
transactions  austerely.) 


Gave  him  a  "ghost-walk":  there  never  was  scholas 
tic  outrage  committed, 

Worse  than  that  function  of  students  for  heavenly 
regions  unfitted! 

In   "Handsome"  Livingston's    chamber — the    finest 
our  college  then  boasted, 
37 


Drifted   In. 

It  was  decreed  that  "Missouri"  by  mythical  spooks 

should  be  roasted. 
Handsome    were    "Handsome's"    apartments,    with 

furnishings  costly  and  splendid: 
(Much  more  his  father  did  for  him,  than  governors 

usually  then  did: 
Now  the  poor  son  of  the  rich  man  considers  his 

parents  too  prudent, 
If,  plus  expense,  he's  not  given  a  salary  for  being  a 

student.) 
In  "Handsome"  Livingston's  "study",  a  few  chosen 

comrades  assembled, 

Singing  "Sweet  Home",  till  the  picture  of  Living 
ston's  home  fairly  trembled; 
Whereat,  "Missouri",   who,    homesick,    loved    John 

Howard  Payne's  touching  ditty, 
Crept    in    and    sung    with    the    rest:  a    melodious 

object  of  pity. 

Then  was   a  ghost-song  exploited;  then  stories   of 

much-atoned  killing, 
Came,   by   each   other  suggested,   well-fitted   young 

blood  to  be  chilling. 
All  the  wide  regions  of  spook-land  were  canvassed 

for  uneasy  tenants, 
Making  this   earth   the   parade-ground   of   frequent 

pedestrian  penance ; 
No  one  unhardened  to  shades,  but  would  feel,  in 

that  case,  very  queerly: 
Wherefore,    all    well-disposed    folk,    must   condemn 

such  proceedings,  sincerely. 

Stories   were   flourished   of   spirits   that   came   far, 
without  being  wanted; 
38 


The  Ghost-Walk. 

Every  remark  that  was  made,  by  some  ghost  of 

allusion  was  haunted. 
Lowered  somehow  were  the  lights,  then:  and  entered 

a  white  apparition- 
Well  it  might  chill  all  the  young  blood,  to  see  it,  in 

any  condition! 
Then   came   some   more,   that  looked   like   him   as 

near  as  a  brother  or  cousin, 
Till  the  deplorable  number  made  inroads  well  up 

to  a  dozen. 
Then,  Oh  supremest  of  horrors! — there  sailed  out 

of  Sheol  a  shipment — 
Satan  himself! — with  hoofs,  horns,  and  much  other 

Satanic  equipment; 
Then   all   these   ghosts  gathered  round  this  young 

lad,  his  corpuscles  congealing; 
Ah!  'twas  no  wonder  his  red  hair  made  efforts  to 

fresco  the  ceiling! 
(Pause    I    a    moment,    rejoicing    that  all  who  are 

reading  this,  nearly, 
Such  a  transaction  condemn,  and  would  punish  it 

very  severely.) 

Fearing  a  sentence  to  Tophet  by  this  undesirable  jury, 
Kneeling  and  gazing  toward  Heaven,  the  frightened 

young  man  from  Missouri 
Prayed  to  be  "shown"  the  right  way — and  apparently 

soon  had  instruction: 
For  he  accosted  the  ghosts,  with  a  strikingly  short 

introduction. 

First  at  the  devil  he  plunged:  and  soon,  with  good 
Orthodox  passion, 

39 


Drifted   In. 

Knocked  the  fiend  out  of  himself,  in  a  regular  Sul 
livan  fashion; 
Tore  off  his  horns,  and  then  used  them  for  violent 

sudden  abrasion, 
Even  as  Sampson  a  jaw-bone  on  one  great  historic 

occasion. 
Did  what  he  pleased  with  the  phantoms,  with  all 

their  weird  trimmings  encumbered; 
Piled  them  in  heaps,  till  the  room  with  debris  of 

the  next  world  was  lumbered. 
Took  no  excuse  from  their  comrades  in  trying  to 

shield  or  befriend  them; 
Broke    "Handsome"    Livingston's    nose    when    he 

manfully  sought  to  defend  them; 
Ground  up  the  bricabrac  promptly,  with  all  these 

gyrations  extensive; 
Smashed    two    fine    mirrors    that  "Handsome"  had 

quoted  as  ultra-expensive; 
Capsized  an  inkstand  of  silver  that  held  something 

less  than  a  barrel, 
Draping  the  carpet  in  mourning,  and  spoiling  some 

yards  of  apparel; 
Knocked  the    whole    room    into    wreckage;     then 

stood,  with  red  hair  in  dishevel, 
High  on  the  ruins,  and  waving  the  horns  of  the 

disabled  devil, 
Shouted,  "Ye  minions  of  darkness,  go  back  to  the 

red  flames  that  fry  you! 
Here  in  the  strength  of  high  Heaven,  in  the  name 

of  the- Lord  I  defy  you!" 

Then  for  his  room  he  departed,  with  manner  con 
tented  and  cheerly: 

40 


'KNOCKED  THE  WHOLE  ROOM  INTO  WRECKAGE 


Drifted  In. 

After  which  ghosts,  as  a  rule,  let  Missouri  alone 
most  severely. 


The  sleep  grew  heavy,  amid  the  noise 
(Like  that  which  traffic  on  iron  employs), 
That  might  have  wakened  one,  if  it  broke 
Upon  him  in  stillness: — like  a  stroke, 
That  very  stillness  the  sleeper  woke. 
The  train  had  halted:  the  storm,  at  least 
For  some  few  minutes,  at  last  had  ceased; 
There  through  the  window  serene  and  high, 
The  great  blue  citadel  of  the  sky, 
Its  ceiling  showed:  and  stars  I  knew 
So  well !  were  glimmering  to  the  view. 
How  oft  I  had  studied,  with  happy  brow, 
Those  orbs  of  splendor,  with  some  who  now, 
Cold  trammels  of  earth  given  back  to  her, 
And  souls  with  freedom's  new  life  astir, 
Perchance,  in  loftily-builded  cars, 
Are  traveling  'mongst  those  selfsame  stars! 
Away  north-east,  in  the  goat-herd's  camp, 
Capella  has  trimmed  his  cold  white  lamp; 
Toward  south-lands  farther  the  fond  eye  sees 
The  bevy  of  laughing  Pleiades, 
And  following  them  at  a  fervid  pace, 
Aldebaran  carries  his  blushing  face. 
Then  hangs  from  his  belt  with  star-gems  stored, 
Orion's  diamond-hilted  sword: 
These  all,  as  if  proud  of  their  Bible  names, 
Lit  that  cold  night  with  flickering  flames. 

41 


Drifted   In. 

Now,  coming,  higher  and  yet  more  high, 
Gleamed  Sirius — king  of  the  farther  sky. 

0  heart  that  I  loved,  and  who  loved  that  star, 
You  told  me  once,  that  when  days  were  done 

That  held  us  in  worlds  where  mortals  are, 
You  would  meet  me  in  yonder  midnight  sun! 

More  quickly  you  did  your  work  than  I— 
The  tasks  of  my  days  are  incomplete; 

But  you  will  be  waiting  bye  and  bye, 

Where  once  we  promised  again  to  meet! 

On  yonder  hill,  over  snowy  plains, 

1  find,  through  the  frosted  window-panes, 
A  sad  lone  oak:  and  it  seems  to  me 

I  hear  the  plaint  of 

THE    HERMIT   TREE. 

Within  a  meadow's  green-clad  zone, 

I  stand  upon  the  hill  alone, 

And  far  and  near  a  name  is  known 

That  clings  to  me: 
With  branches  vaulting  proudly  high, 
And  finger  pointing  at  the  sky, 
A  landmark  to  the  world  am  I : 

The  Hermit  Tree! 

And  trav'lers  from  the  woodlands,  gaze 
Through  summer  suns  and  snowy  days, 
To  where  my  flags  a  signal  raise 

That  all  may  see: 
Ah  many  a  loftier  one  doth  bide 
(With  comrades  round  on  every  side), 
42 


The  Hermit  Tree. 

That  falls  beneath,  in  fame  and  pride, 
The  Hermit  Tree! 

No  sun-burned  cattle  pass  me  by:  . 
But  dreamily  they  stand  or  lie 
Within  the  shade  that  hovers  nigh 

My  towering   form; 
Fair  maids  accost  me  with  a  smile, 
And  'mid  my  branches  hours  beguile, 
Or  bid  me  shelter  them  awhile 

From    sun    or   storm; 

The  birds  will  haste  with  spring-time  zest, 
Each  eager  that  she  build  her  nest 
Upon  my  branch  she  loves  the  best; 

And  in  his  flight, 
Full  oft  a  feathered  trav'ler  may 
Go  somewhat  from  his  nearest  way, 
For  nothing  but  that  he  can  stay 

With  me  a  night. 

And  it  doth  oft  the  memory  rouse, 
That  lovers  'neath  my  trusted  boughs 
Have  pledged  their  sweetly  solemn  vows, 

In  night's  dim  noon; 
While,  sailing  through  the  mists  above, 
As  if  a  silent-flying  dove, 
Peers  'twixt  my  leaves  that  queen  of  love, 

The  changing  moon. 

No  word  of  hate!  no  rival  near! 
No  enemy  to  face  or  fear! 
What  life  of  better,  grander  cheer — 
From  trouble  free? 

43 


Drifted  In. 

As  flits  the  swiftly  gliding  day, 
On  my  deep-rooted  throne  I  stay, 
A  king  to  all  who  pass  that  way; 
Glad  Hermit  Tree! 


But  often,  when  the  world  has  gone  to  rest, 

The  sun  is  sailing  far  behind  the  west, 

And  darkness  all  the  landscape  has  possessed, 

Then  I  alone 

Stand  brooding  o'er  the  days  that  orice  I  knew, 
When  comrades  all  around  me  smiled  and  grew, 
And  some  of  them  their  arms  in  friendship  threw 

Across  my  own. 

We  whispered  words  no  mortals  understood, 
And  gossiped  of  their  goings  bad  and  good, 
And  of  our  neighbor-comrades  of  the  wood; 

And  to  us  crept 

Oft,  news  of  fprests  that  were  far  away, 
And  what  their  tribes  of  trees  would  do  and  say; 
And  seldom  closed  our  converse,  night  or  day, 

Save  as  we  slept. 

When  storms  were  leaping  through  the  angry  sky, 
And  fiercely  pealed  the  lightning's  battle-cry, 
And  the  swift  gale's  shrill  monologue  reply 

Came  to  us  near, 
With  loyalty's  assembled  hardihood, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  'gainst  the  storm  we  stood, 
The  tall  undaunted  giants  of  the  wood! 

And  laughed  at  fear. 

44 


The  Hermit  Tree. 

And  there  was  one  sweet  one  I  loved  o'er-well, 
And  to  her  heart  love's  legends  oft  would  tell: 
But  oh  the  fearful  fate  that  her  befel— 

Too  winsome,  she! 

O'er-soon,  in  hands  of  men  more  wise  than  strong, 
The  gleaming  axes  sang  her  funeral  song; 
And  with  a  scream  of  sorrow  loud  and  long, 

She  passed  from  me. 


Thus  one  by  one  my  friends  were  swept  away: 
As  cunning  was  the  woodman's  hand  to  slay 
With  victims  that  men  needed,  day  by  day, 

To  fill  their  needs, 
As  is  the  busy  hand  of  Death  to  fell 
Mortals,  who  some  time,  prince  and  boor  as  well, 
Must  fall  before  the  viewless  axe,  to  quell 

Earth's  constant  greeds. 

"O  come  to  me,  and  hover  to  me  nigh, 
My  comrades  true!"  is  oft  my  silent  cry, 
"Or  help  me  do — as  you  have  done — to  die, 

And  with  you  be!" 

So,  with  all  earth  around  me  but  My  Own, 
I  learn  full  often  that  the  word  Alone 
Is  not  a  sound  of  triumph,  but  a  moan: 

Sad  Hermit  Tree! 


Once  more — the  drifts  that  had  bade  us  stay 
Being  swept  from  the  track,  we  made  shift  to 

But  still,  as  we  trundled  along  the  way, 
It  seemed  that  the  pace  was  waxing  slow. 
45 


Drifted   In. 

When  once  again  by  a  silence  deep 

Roused  from  the  delicious  death  called  sleep, 

There  peeped  through  windows  the  morning  gray 

Our  world  had  been  given  another  day. 

But  sounds  of  the  engine's  steam-whirled  mill 

Came  not  to  my  couch;  the  wheels  below 
That  had  shaken  car  and  track,  were  still, 

And  nought  except  footsteps  to  and  fro 
The  lengths  of  the  curtained  aisle,  was  heard, 
With  now  and  then  an  impatient  word, 
Less  welcome  than  e'en  the  loudest  din — 
Informing  us  we  were  "drifted  in"! 

The  storm  was  raging  again,  and  here 
Had  blocked  our  pathway  in  front  and  rear, 
And  the  grim  locomotive's  toil, 
And  gallons  of  water  in  rage  might  boil, 
But  met  more  water  in  frozen  form- 
Sarcastic  gift  of  the  surly  storm; 
Which,  any  effort  prepared  to  meet, 
Forbade  our  advancing  or  retreat. 
So  there,  in  a  vale  of  cruel  snow 
Our  village  stood:  and  we  did  not  know 
What  township  locally  waved  a  hand 
Of  stern  authority  o'er  the  land. 
If  man,  made  desperate  by  despair, 
Should  murder  his  brother  then  and  there, 
We  knew  not  the  county  whose  lot  'twould  be 
To  make  him  fruit  of  a  gallows-tree, 
Or  bid  him  seek  for  his  fatal  lair, 
The  depths  of  the  harsh  electric  chair. 
We  knew  the  city  we  last  had  left, 

46 


Drifted    In. 

We  knew  the  city  we  next  should  gain, 
And  half  a  hundred  of  wan  miles  cleft 

These  toilers'  and  idlers'  homes  in  twain. 
But  where  was  our  desolate  home  today, 
Was  more  than  the  wisest  ones  could  say. 

What  walkings  and  runnings  to  and  fro, 

What  asking  of  questions,  what  fury  and  fuming 
To  think  these  flying  mountains  of  snow 

Could  ever  with  us  be  so  presuming! 
But  here  we  were,  in  a  prison  all 

Mid  wonderful  crystals,  hewed  with  care 
By  Nature's  chisel: — though  ultra-small, 

Geometry's  wonders  all  were  there. 
But  prisons  are  prisons,  however  decked 
Their  walls  with  beauty:  and  little  recked 
Our  throng  in  thralldom  as  to  the  hoard 
Of  jewelled  wonders  around  them  stored. 
So  louder  and  louder  the  clamor  rose, 

And  lawlessness  covert  and  overt 
Began  appearing:  and  sundry  foes 

Of  order  were  ready  to  sting  and  hurt. 
The  great  majority  of  our  throng 

Believed  in  order;  but  bye  and  bye 
One  Satan-commissioned  apostle  of  wrong 

A  cinder  may  be,  in  the  public  eye. 
And  lawlessness  has  contagions  of  soul, 
Like  any  disease,  when  stern  control 
Grows  fragile. — Our  conductor  and  crew, 
Brim-full  of  "authority"  when  they  knew 
That  help  from  the  next  town  was  their  lot, 
Grew  milder  and  meeker  when  'twas  not, 

47 


Drifted   In. 

And  offered  as  pretext  (partly  true) 
That  they  had  enough  elsewise  to  do, 
In  toiling  to  bring  relief  in  sight, 
And  delve  us  out  of  our  awkward  plight. 

So  hour  by  hour  did  the  tumult  grow: 

The  petty  marauders  ran  to  and  fro, 

And,  nerved  by  submission  ill-advised, 

The  half  of  the  party  terrorized. 

They  robbed  the  train-boy — plaintive  to  tell- 

Of  little  nothings  he  had  to  sell; 

They  gambled  openly  as  they  chose, 

'Gainst  rules  card-larceny  to  oppose; 

They  thrust  attentions  on  woman  and  man, 

Until  free  fighting  well  nigh  began ; 

And  fists  were  doubled  that  long  had  been 

Unused  in  the  gentle  arts  that  win. 

Confusion  was  king! — but  now  appeared 
A  leader  that  could  be  loved,  and  feared 
(And  that  is  the  only  kind,  indeed, 
That  really  very  long  can  lead), 
One  who  had  listened  and  spoke  no  word, 
Through  all  the  clamor:  but  now  was  heard 
So  clearly,  there  came  a  sudden  hush, 
To  mind  his  sayings — and  then  a  rush 
From  other  coaches  to  this : — he  stood 
As  one  in  gentle-defiant  mood,  . 
And  spoke,  in  a  voice  with  velvet  sheath 
Enclosing  claws  that  were  just  beneath. 

An  old  sea-captain  wrinkled  and  gray; 
A  ruler  of  ships :  who  in  his  day 
48 


The  Captain's  Story. 

Had  sped  o'er  ocean  and  lake  and  stream, 
And  foaming  gulf;  and  had  heard  the  scream 
Of  many  a  storm,  and  had  answer  made 
With  all  the  defiances  of  his  trade; 
And  thwarted  the  efforts  of  those  sprites 
Of  fearful  days  and  fearfuller  nights, 
When  storms  are  abroad  in  savage  gloom, 
And  say  to  mortals,  "We  need  the  room! 
Go  down  in  the  ocean's  depths  to  stay, 
And  rest  forever  with  kindred  clay!" 


This  Captain  had  fought  'gainst  many  a  gale, 
With  strong  propeller  and  facile  sail, 
Knew  half  the  world,  as  he  would  a  town, 
In  which  he  had  journeyed  up  and  down; 
He  knew  the  science  how  not  to  bind 
A  wreck  of  matter,  to  wreck  of  mind. 
So  different  from  the  rest  was  he, 
Of  those  who  were  in  that  company, 
He  held  them  not  "with  his  glittering  eye", 
But  his  whole  body  and  soul  stood  by, 
And  floated  each  word  o'er  that  abysm, 
With  cleanly  resolute  magnetism. 
And  as  he  stood  there,  modestly  bold, 
This  tale  to  the  listening  throng  he  told: 

(THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.) 

The   ship   was   steerin'   nor'-nor'-east ;   the   weather 

hailed  us  fair; 
The  cherub  that  looks  out  for  Jack  was  flyin*  through 

the  air. 

49 


Drifted  In. 

An'  Davy  Jones  his  locker  shut,  an'  laid  him  down 

to  rest, 
An'  says  there  won't  be  no  arrives  for  forty  hours 

at  best! 
When  all  to  once  a  han'-breadth  cloud  growed  black 

an'  deep  an'  wide, 
An'  scowled  at  our  barometer,  an'  told  it  that  it  lied. 

We  moaned  the  Flyin'  Dutchman's  fate  three  days 

an'  nights  or  more, 
An'  fellers  asked  supplies  from  Heaven  that  never 

prayed  before; 
Their  larboard  knees  an'  starboard  knees  was  both 

in  good  demand, 
With  Heaven  or  that  'ere  other  place  their  only  point 

to  land. 
But  in  one  hour  the  weather  smiled  an'  looks  of 

sweetness  bore, 
An*    we    approached    a    little    isle    few    ever    seen 

before. 

An*  jest  as  soon  as  peril  fled,  these  fellers  that  hed 
prayed, 

Become  agnostics  quick  ag'in,  of  neither  world 
afraid ; 

An'  when  the  shattered  ship  went  down  as  soon  as 
we  had  moved 

It's  val'ables  unto  the  shore,  their  courage  still  im 
proved, 

An'  "Law  and  Order's  had  its  trip,"  their  conduct 
seemed  to  say, 

"An'  we  will  run  this  thing  ourselves — our  own  per- 
tic'ler  way." 

50 


The  Captain's  Story. 

The  first  that  died  was  little  James:  opinion  he  had 

foun', 
That   woman    owned   no    rights,    when    wrong   had 

strength  to  crush  her  down. 
An'  Cap.  addressed  his  faculties,  an'  vainly  tried  to 

show'm 
That  such  a  plan  could  never  live  'mongst  men  who'd 

wives  at  home. 
He  would  not  list,  and  'twas  not  long  before  he  sank 

to  sleep: 
His  grave  for  any  woman  waits,  who  wishes  there 

to  weep. 

The  next  that  died  was   Prowlin'   Sam:  he  by  th' 

opinion  came, 
That  others'  property  was  his,  ef  he  could  steal  the 

same. 
The  Captain  tried  to  caution  him  that  competition's 

brisk, 

An'  predatory  animals  must  carry  lots  of  risk: 
He  could  not  learn  it  soon  enough  his  graspin'  life 

to  save: 
He  owns  a  han'some  little  plot  beside  the  ocean  wave. 

The  next  that  died  was  Highbred  Tom :  he  hailed  his 

mates  to  tell'm 
He  meant  to  be  the  muck-a-muck  of  that  small  island 

realm. 
The  Captain   told  him  muck-a-mucks  should  work 

up  by  degrees:— 

He  tried  to  steer  a  mutiny  the  gov'ment  for  to  seize. 
He  lost  his  standin'  an'  was  soon  a-swingin'  to  an' 

fro: 

51 


Drifted  In. 

You'll  find  him  bloomin'  near  a  tree — provided  he 
should  grow. 

The  next  that  died  was  John  Mcjohn— the  meanest 

of  the  lot- 
But  one  that  had  a  pile  of  sense  where  better  men 

have  not: 
He  knew  a  rock  if  that  the  same  should  frown  within 

his  sight — 
He  knowed  men  hev  a  prejudice  that  other  men  do 

right. 
He  tacked  these  matters  up  an'  down  the  searoom 

in  his  head, 
An*  died  a  few  years  afterwards — quite  comf'ble,  in 

his  bed. 


What  influence,  in  due  time  and  place 
Short-stories  have  had  upon  our  race! 
Who  for  cold  logic  may  lack  the  sense, 
Still  lists  to  the  logic  of  strange  events. 
A  Sultan  learned  of  marital  rights, 
Through  story-spangled  Arabian  Nights; 
Scheherezade  thus  gathered  fame 

As  saver  of  life  in  days  long  gone, 
Boccaccio  won  a  philosopher's  name, 

With  wise  and  foolish  Decamerone; 
Grim  Rabelais   made  good-natured  sneers 
To  sharp-edged  scalpels  and  bright  rapiers; 
Cervantes  furnished  a  story-cure 
For  sundry  dudes  of  literature; 
"Abe"  Lincoln  pointed  his  precepts  well, 
With  stories  we  might  and  might  not  tell; 
52 


Drifted   In. 

The  politician  wraps  new  and  old 

Bad  sophistries  up,  in  tales  well  told, 

Which,  counting  for  rather  more  than  half, 

If  not  the  argument — gets  the  laugh; 

The  preacher  the  truth  of  heaven  oft  brings, 

Done  up  in  tales  of  secular  things; 

In  What  Has  Been,  we  can  always  see 

A  half-formed  image  of  What  May  Be. 

This  simple  story  the  Captain  told, 

Ere  yet  it  was  half  a  minute  old, 

And  unassuming  in  verbal  style, 

But  hitting  the  point  of  the  case  meanwhile, 

Tranquillity  brought  and  order  saved ; 

All  now  were  quiet  and  well  behaved, 

And  matters  went  on,  through  gleam  and  gloam, 

As  if  in  some  well-conducted  home. 

And  like  the  head  of  a  family, 

The  Captain  roamed  through  each  narrow  hall, 
And  smilingly  praised,  with  tempered  glee, 

The  spirit  of  peace  pervading  all. 

Such  things  were  done  as  could  now  be  done, 

For  aid  and  comfort  to  every  one : 

An  inventory  of  food-supplies, 

Was  taken  under  the  Captain's  eyes; 

And  rations  issued  in  proper  form 

To  all  our  prisoners  of  the  storm. 

Those  who  were  feeble  were  given  the  best, 

Of  that  which  our  interned  train  possessed; 

And  all  were  cozy  as  could  be  planned 

In  frigid  deserts  with  snow  for  sand, 

And  simooms  sweeping  above: — for  still 

The  storm  was  working  its  wretched  will. 

53 


Drifted   In, 

Two  Arctic  heroes  of  tropic  soul, 
Who  once  had  courted  the  long-sought  Pole, 
Climbed  up  to  the  highest  vantage-ground, 
And  distant  roofs  of  a  f arm-house  found, 
Whose  chimneys'  banners  would  seem  to  vie 
In  color  with  snow-clouds  'gainst  the  sky. 
And  'neath  this  temple  of  toil,  'twas  thought, 
Was  useful  produce  that  might  be  bought, 
At  sheer  starvation  prices,  perchance, 
Or  terms  that  gratitude  would  enhance, 
Ere  our  providings — too  good  to  last — 
Had  joined  the  memories  of  the  past. 
So  all  things  prosperous-ward  seemed  turned, 
As  far  as  the  body  might  be  concerned. 

But  'tis  not  enough  for  life  enjoyed, 
That  only  the  body  be  employed, 
And  clad  and  nourished:  from  minds  close  pent, 
Grow  dangerous  weeds  of  discontent. 
When  filled  were  cavities  anatomic 
Mid  multiform  gestures  gastronomic, 
A  grave  Judge  rose,  with  the  same  mild  air 
Yet  firm,  that  followed  him  everywhere, 
And  said,  "My  friends,  we  are  here  today, 
Heaven  knows,  I  suppose,  how  long  to  stay; 
And  each  of  us  all  should  work  his  best 
The  others  to  rest  and  interest. 
Each  tell  a  story  be't  short  or  long, 
Or  dance,  or  whistle,  or  sing  a  song, 
Or  listen  and  cheer  (for  that,  'tis  true: 
Is  something  that  every  one  can  do, 
And,  trimmed  with  sufficient  vim  and  art, 
Will  thrill  through  the  entertainer's  heart) 
54 


The  Old  Front  Gate. 

And  make  this  anchorage  as  heaven  meant, 
A  prosperous  voyage  of  mind-content." 

So  one  by  one  were  the  stories  told, 
With  due  good  nature  by  young  and  old; 
From  authors  that  now  are  but  a  name — 
From  many  that  still  have  need  of  fame; 
And  if  the  writer  of  this  same  book 
The  other  writers  should  overlook, 
And  give  such  things  as  were  gathered  then 
From  his  imperfect  though  willing  pen, 
Who  blames  him? — he  does  not  care  to  fight 
Suits  for  infringement  of  copyright. 

There  was  a  maiden  with  flower-like  face, 
And  manners  full  of  unconscious  grace, 
Encouraged  to  air  her  modest  worth 
By  that  One  Woman  that  gave    her  birth, 
And  with  naivete  'tis  a  joy  to  state, 
Recited  to  us 

THE  OLD  FRONT  GATE. 

Standin'  in  this  city  garden,  there  is  other  things  I  see, 
There  is  folks  that  wanders  'long  here,  lookin'  reg'lar 

like  at  me ; 
But   I   keep   my   balance   steady;    and   perhaps   as 

frisky  feel 
As  my  cousins  in  the  parlor — our    old    clock    and 

spinnin'-wheel. 
Swingin'  back  and  swingin'  forward — for  to  name  my 

title  straight — 
I  am  known  throughout  the  family,  as  the  Old  Front 

Gate. 

55 


Drifted  In. 

An'  it's  quite  a  good  long  spell,  now,  if  my  mem'ry 
serves  me  clear, 

Since  I  guarded  our  old  homestead — sev'ral  hundred 
miles  from  here; 

There  was  comin' — there  was  goin' — for  the  latch- 
string  dangled  free, 

But  they  could  not  reach  the  door-yard,  till  they  first 
shook  hands  with  me ! 

An'  I  always  looked  them  over — likin'  some  of  them 
first  rate— 

An'  some  others  wasn't  welcome,  to  the  old  Front 
Gate. 


There  was  neighbors  came  to  visit,  undesignin'ly  an' 

square; 
There  was  neighbors  came  to  borrow  anything  we 

had  to  spare; 
There  was  folks  that  'twasn't  easy  for  no  common 

heights  to  maters — 
There  was  pretty  little  children — such    as    couldn't 

reach  the  latch; 
There  was  lovers  fondly  lingerin'  perseverin'ly  an' 

late— 
Till  they  sagged  the  j'ints  an'  hinges  of  the  Old 

Front  Gate ! 

Fellows  comin'  there  o'  evenin's  makin'  most  too 

long  a  stay; 
Fellows  comin'  there  with  preachers,  for  to  take  our 

gals  away; 
Fellows  comin'  there  with  fiddles,  for  to  thrill  the 

dance's  tread— 

56 


The  Old  Front  Gate. 

Fellows  drivin'  up  with  coffins,  for  to  bear  away  our 

dead. 
Swingin'  back  an'  swingin'  forward  like  a  pendulum 

of  fate, 
I've  done  sad  an'  mournful  duty,  as  the  Old  Front 

Gate! 


There  was  one  good-lookin'  couple,  jolly-hearted  like, 

and  free, 
Talked  a  heap  o'  nonsense-wisdom,  with  their  elbows 

onto  me; 
An'  they  married,  as  they  ought  to:  for  their  hearts 

became  one  heart, 
But  they  moved  off  to  the  city,  an'  then  kind  o' 

worked  apart; 
They  grew  rich  an'  full  o'  fashion,  an'  their  souls 

forgot  to  mate, 
An'  they  lost  the  tie  that  bound  'em  by  the  Old 

Front  Gate. 

An'  they  both  was  blue  about  it;  for  they  both  was 

some  to  blame — 
An'  they  got  so  one  was  missin'  places  where  the 

other  came; 
An'  her  mother — sweet  old  lady  but  eternal  cunnin', 

too — 
Saw  that  things  was  runnin'  dang'rous,  an'  decided 

what  to  do; 
So  she  wrote  a  secret  letter  to  her  cousin,  "Do  not 

wait, 
Till  you  straightway  box  and  send  to  me,  the  Old 

Front  Gate!" 

57 


Drifted   In. 

Then  she  hung  me  in  the  garden,  an'  betwixt  two 

twilight  hours, 
Once  she  coaxed  them  out  together,  for  to  view  some 

blossomin'  flowers. 
An'  they  came  there,  kind  o'  listless,  as  to  what  they 

was  to  see, 
An'   in  turnin'   round  a  corner,  spat  they  run  up 

onto  me! 
An'  they  knew  me  in  a  minute;  an'  their  hearts  began 

to  date 
Back  to  where  they  used  to  linger,  by  the  Old  Front 

Gate. 

An'  they  clasped  each  other  closely,  as  their  memory 

hurried  back, 
An'  the  good  old  lady  switched  off — havin'  set  them 

on  the  track; 

An'  I  also  had  experience  that  I  never  had  before, 
For  my  lady  bent  above  me,  an*  caresbed  me,  o'er 

and  o'er! 
Swingin'  back  an'  swingin'  forward,  I  am  very  glad 

to  state, 
That  that  pair  re-entered  Heaven,  through  the  Old 

Front  Gate. 


And  next  a  lad  of  ambitious  mien 
And  tremors  he  strove  to  cage  unseen, 
And  manners  acting  the  well-known  page 
Of  "you'd  scarce  expect  one  of  my  age" 
Discoursing,  with  stiff-necked  rhythmic  ease, 
Of  Cicero  and  Demosthenes, 

58 


48* 


* 


"FELLOWS  DRIVIN'  UP  WITH  COFFINS,  FOR  TO  BEAR  AWAY  OUR  DEAD" 


Song  of  the  Wires. 

And  mentioning  many  oaks  that  grow 
From  acorns  buried  in  tombs  below, 
Told  what  once,  humming  in  songs  o'erhead, 
'Twas  fancied  the  telegraph  had  said : 

(SONG  OF  THE  WIRES.) 

See  the  wires,  the  slender  wires,  hanging  on  their 

forest  spires ! 
They  are  swinging,  they  are  clinging  to  the  weird 

electric  fires. 
Little  did  the  rustling  trees  think  to  bear  such  fruits 

as  these; 
Little  did  they  mean  to  hand  views  and  news  from 

land  to  land. 
See  them  swinging,  hear  them  singing,  through  the 

night  and  through  the  day ! 
And  this  is  part  of  what  they  say: 

There  is  a  wedding  in  the  town — 

The  bride — how  fair  to  see! 
As  ne'er  before — as  ne'er  again 

In  loveliness  is  she. 

A  hundred  men  have  digged  the  earth 

To  find  these  jewels  rare; 
They  dived  within  the  ocean  depths 

For  pearls  to  strew  her  hair. 

They  spilled  their  blood  on  battle-fields — 

Tis  dripping  even  now— 
To  find  the  crown  of  diamonds 

That  decks  her  queenly  brow. 

59 


Drifted   In. 

The  seamstress  bit  a  bloodless  lip 
And  struggled  'gainst  her  dreams, 

To  shape  that  star-strewn  wedding-gown, 
And  clench  its  costly  seams. 

Yon  man  is  cursing  him  who  walks 

In  triumph  at  her  side; 
A  maiden  here  in  secret  weeps 

That  she  is  not  the  bride. 

Their  gift-room  is  a  palace-nook 

Of  baubles  strangely  fair, 
As  bright  and  treasure-strewn  as  if 

Aladdin  conjured  there. 

O  wedded  ones,  if  you  have  love, 

May  it  be  deep  and  strong: 
It  will  be  tested;  for  I  soon 

Must  sing  your  funeral  song! 

See  the  wires,  the  serpent-wires,  bearing  mandates 

and  desires ! 
They  are  swinging,  they  are  clinging  to  the  weird 

electric  fires; 

Hear  them  singing,  night  and  day! 
And  this  is  part  of  what  they  say: 

Send  far  and  wide  the  mournful  news— 

A  millionaire  is  dead ! 
On  rustling  tablets  through  the  land 

The  tidings  shall  be  read. 

With  tiptoe-step  his  servants  flit 
Along  the  velvet  floor; 

60 


Song  of  the  Wires. 

And  darkly  scowling  coils  of  crape 
Are  clinging  to  the  door. 

A  richly  vestured  priest  will  quote 

A  list  of  virtues  long; 
The  city's  leading  vocalist 

Will  sell  her  sweetest  song: 

Then  they  will  drag  him  from  his  home 

With  horses  sleek  and  fleet; 
And  you  shall  see  a  black-plumed  grave 

Go  skurrying  up  the  street. 

Perchance  the  temple's  gilded  hall 

An  hour  of  him  may  win; 
Still,  open  yawns  the  grave-yard  gate, 

And  he  must  enter  in. 

Ye  million  dead,  edge  close,  and 'give 
The  silk-clad  pauper  room! — 

A  marble  brow  and  marble  heart 
Within  a  marble  tomb. 


Hear  them  sing  of  trade  and  battle;  hear  the  gold- 
coin  chink  and  rattle! 

Hear  the  feverish  stammering  ticker:  stocks  are  up! 
and  stocks  are  down! 

There's  rejoicing,  there  is  wailing,  there  is  ruin  in 
the  town. 

He  who  was  a  prince  at  morning  is  a  beggar  of  the 
night; 

She  who  held  the  world  in  scorning  now  may  wither 
in  its  sight. 

61 


Drifted   In. 

Ah!  a  battle  now  is  on!  tell  the  news  and  who  has 

won! 
Hear  the  bullets  ringing,  stinging — through  the  wires' 

spasmodic  singing — 

Chanting  through  the  blood-dimmed  day? — 
And  this  is  what  they  say : 

Hot  cannon  herd  upon  the  hills 

And  rifles  in  the  glen ; 
Oh,  all  the  world  will  listen,  now: 

For  men  are  murdering  men! 

Not  hunting  God's  four-footed  beasts 

Or  feathered  clans,  they  came: 
A  nation  is  their  hunting-ground, 

And  other  men  their  game. 

He  was  a  glittering  general 

With  thousands  at  his  nod: 
He  is  a  fragment  of  the  turf: 

A  clod  beneath  the  clod. 

He  was  a  sunny-hearted  boy — 

A  hope,  but  even  now: 
He  is  a  specter  in  the  home, 

With  blood  upon  its  brow. 

She  was  a  proud  and  winsome  wife 

The  world  could  not  assail: 
She  walks  the  street  a  ghost  in  black 

Beneath  a  widow's  veil. 

She  was  a  mother,  fond  and  proud, 
When  morning's  gems  were  strown: 

62 


Drifted   In. 

She  is  a  wrecked  old  woman,  now, 
And  writhes  and  sobs  alone. 


Throng  round  the  staring  bulletin — 
Look — listen — one  and  all: 

For  with  the  swaying  battle-line, 
Your  stocks  must  rise  and  fall! 


Then  rose  a  motherly  looking  dame — 

One  who  no  doubt  the  cradle  had  rocked 
That  "rocks  the  world";  with  laurels  of  fame 

Her  gray  hair  never  had  been  enlocked; 
But  what  is  that,  on  this  planet-ball 
That  men  can  compass  ere  they  read  all 
The  novel  they  opened  the  morn  they  sailed? 

And  think  of  more  planets — each  one  an  earth — 
And  the  "fixed"  stars — through  ether  trailed — 

All  suns,  with  planets  of  varied  worth — 
And  tell  me,  you  who  would  give  your  eyes 
For  this  earth's  fame — are  you  really  wise? 
This  very  woman  perhaps  has  done 

Her  womanly-duty,  in  her  small  way, 
In  her  small  town :  she  may  not  be  known 

Outside  the  burdens  that  crush  her  down, 
But  all  through  her  life,  discreetly  good, 
She  faithfully  "hath  done  what  she  could", 
And  though  not  lauded  through  trumpets  of  clay, 
Perhaps  is  famous  in  Heaven  today. 
And,  whether  or  not,  we  will  let  her  weave 
A  story  of  Christmas  morn  and  eve: 

63 


Drifted   In. 
(WHAT  SANTA  GLAUS  WAS  LIKE.) 

"Now  what  is  he  like,  do  you  believe?" 

Said  Margerie,  Jean,  and  Joe, 
Three  tots  that  sat,  one  Christmas  eve, 

In  the  fireside's  frolicsome  glow: 
"Is  he  tall,  or  short?     Is  he  stout,  or  slim? 
Pictures  so  many  we've  seen  of  him — 

All  different,  too,  you  know: 
Lie  we  awake  tonight — us  three — 
And  watch  till  he  comes — and  then  we'll  see, 
And  tell  it,  to  all  our  friends'  delight, 
At  the  Christmas  party  tomorrow  night." 

The  wind  was  high,  and  the  gales  flew  by, 

With  their  dappled  wings  of  snow: 
They  tapped  in  vain  at  the  window-pane — 

They  onward  still  must  go. 
"He  will  have  a  fine  old  stormy  night", 

Said  the  sturdy  little  Joe: 
"He  will  be  a  sight,  in  his  coat  of  white", 

Said  Marge,  with  her  eyes  aglow: 
"We  must  have  him  a  cup  of  coffee  here, 
And  give  him  a  bite,  and  a  word  of  cheer", 

Said  Jean,  with  her  eyes  bent  low. 

And  the  mother  smiled,  as  their  talk  she  heard, 

And  measured  and  treasured  every  word, 

As  she  did  of  the  other  child,  that  lay 

Far  out  in  the  field,  in  its  cot  of  clay, 

'Neath  many  a  frozen  tear  of  love — 

The  chill  winds  rocking  the  branches  above. 

64 


What  Santa  Claus   Was  Like. 

She  covered  and  cuddled,  with  heart  astir, 

The  three  sweet  ones  that  were  left  to  her, 

And  shut  them  into  their  cozy  beds, 

And  kissed  the  raven  and  golden  heads, 

And  kissed  them  again  for  her  husband's  sake, 

And  said,  "Yes,  dears,  you  may  lie  awake, 

(If  you  can)  and  watch,  to  see,  and  tell 

Of  the  Santa  Claus  that  you  love  so  well." 

"Now  what  do  you  think  was  Santa  Claus  like?" 

Said  Margerie,  Jean,  and  Joe, 
Each  other  asking,  as  brightly  basking 

Safe  in  the  fireside's  glow, 

They  hugged  the  toys  they  had  found  next  morn 
ing, 
Sweetly  their  stockings'  depths  adorning: 

"Which  of  us  ought  to  know?" 
And  each  one  spoke  from  the  seeing  purely — 
(All  of  them  thought  they  had  seen  him,  surely — • 

Margerie,  Jean,  and  Joe.) 

"Oh,  he  was  a  stylish  and  smart  old  man, 

And  stayed  here  quite  a  while, 
And  down  to  his  knees  a  white  beard  ran," 

Said  Margerie,  with  a  smile: 
"He  sang  me  a  nice  and  queer  old  song, 
And  told  of  his  journeys  strange  and  long, 
And  all  the  children  he  went  to  see, 
And  some  of  them  looked,  he  said,  like  me; 
And  he  drove  a  reindeer  right  in  here, 
With  gold-plate  harness  pretty  and  queer; 
And  I  held  my  hand  to  the  pet  to  kiss: 
But  all  at  once  he  jumped — like  this — 

65 


Drifted   In. 

And  away  they  went,  with  chimney  for  door, 
And  deer  and  driver  I  saw  no  more." 


"Oh  Margerie,  that  was  a  great  big  dream," 

Said  Joe,  "if  you  speak  for  true: 
I  saw  him  myself  and  he  didn't  seem 

At  all  as  he  did  to  you! 

He  was  dressed  like  a  general  spick  and  trim, 
With  great  big  medals  all  over  him ; 
And  a  sword  of  steel,  as  bright  as  you  please, 
And  boots  that  climbed  up  over  his  knees; 
He  was  like  Napoleon  in  the  book, 
But  twice  as  big,  with  a  kinder  look; 
And  he  said  "When  'tisn't  Christmas,  I'm 
A  big  brave  general,  all  the  time; 
And  if  you  are  good,  and  do  as  you  should, 
I'll  bring  you  some  fireworks,  bye-and  -bye, 
To  burn  on  the  Fourth  of  next  July." 


"Why,  both  of  you  dreamed  you  saw  him :  how  queer!" 

Said  Jean,  with  her  simple  grace: 
"I  saw  him  myself:  he  was  just  a  dear 

Old  man  with  a  sweet  sad  face; 
He  smilingly  threw  a  kiss  at  me: 
"Is  that  your  brother  and  sister?"  said  he. 
"I  will  wake  them,"  said  I,  "from  their  slumber  deep: 
They  wanted  to  see  you,  but  fell  asleep." 
"No,  no,  my  dear:  let  them  sleep  who  can! 
Good  bye,  little  girl!"  said  the  dear  old  man, 
And  was  off — and  left  me  alone  with  you, 
Wishing  that  you  could  have  seen  him  too." 

66 


The   Starlings3    Christmas    Tree. 

And  the  mother  said,  'mid  smiles  and  tears, 
"I  think  that  you  all  have  seen  him,  dears." 


A  roly-poly  uncouth  old  man, 

With  gray  beard  growing  on  its  own  plan, 

And  gray  eyes  twinkling  through  all  he  said, 

And  gray  hair  fringing  a  bright  bald  head, 

And  gray  clothes  seldom  the  brushes  knew 

(Indeed  there  was  dust  in  its  primal  hue), 

And  gray  voice,  also,  as  one  might  say, 

Here  told  some  news  of  one  Christmas  day. 

(I  know  not  whether  it  be  a  crime, 

To  mar  his  story  with  rhythm  and  rhyme:) 

(THE  STARLINGS'  CHRISTMAS  TREE.) 

Recollect  the  old  man  Starling,  half  a  mile  from 
Bennett's  Corners, 

Just  a  milkman's  trip  or  two  east  of  Aminadab 
Warner's? 

Didn't  he  have  a  grip  aroun'  coins  of  low  denomina 
tion?— 

Money  when  it  reached  his  pocket,  knowed  it  had  a 
long  vacation. 

An*  he  wore  peculiar  pockets — of  his  own  express 
designin', 

With  iron  buckles  at  the  top,  an'  hog-leather  for 
their  linin'. 

How  he  used  to  shrink  his  livin'!  sold  the  best  an' 

e't  the  leanest: 
Cattle  went  an'  cattle  came — but  of  all  he  stood  the 

meanest. 

67 


Drifted   In. 

Sold  his  childr'n  colts  for  pennies,  long  before  they 
even  named  'em : 

But  when  they  would  grow  up  hosses,  then  the  old 
man  always  claimed  'em; 

Made  'em  borrow  half  their  books,  an'  their  other 
school-utensils — 

Even  sent  'em  to  the  quarries  for  to  dig  off  splinter- 
pencils! 

Never  spent  a  single  cent  for  to  make  his  home  more 

pleasant; 
Never  crowned  a  Chris'mas  mornin*  with  one  blessed 

Chris'mas  present; 
Oft  his  childr'n  fell  to  cryin'  'cause  they  had  to  go 

without  'em — 
Till    the    sewin'-circle    clubs    used    to    sit    an'  talk 

about  'em! 
So  we  thought,  one  prosp'rous  year,  when  the  crops 

took  on  expansion, 
There  should  be  one  Chris'mas  tree,  in  the  old  man 

Starling's  mansion. 

So  we  started  out  to  fix  it:  an'  we  canvassed  'mongst 
the  neighbors, 

Takin'  up  a  town-collection,  on  the  sly,  'twixt  other 
labors ; 

Workin'  on  some  people's  pity,  an'  on  some's 
imagination, 

An'  on  some's  amused  desire  for  to  see  the  cele 
bration  ; 

An'  we  gathered  quite  a  fund,  with  a  "don't  you  tell 
it"  warnin', 

68 


The  Starlings'  Christmas  Tree. 

'Nough  to  make  the  Starling  childr'n  happy  one 
whole  Chris'mas  mornin'. 

Mercy!  how  them  childr'n  acted,  when  the  door  was 
opened,  fin'lly, 

An'  revealed  to  them  the  presents— lookin',  doubtless, 
most  divinely! 

Whole  thing  didn't  cost  ten  dollars:  but  'twas  heaven- 
like  bewild'rin', 

An'  worth  more'n  a  hundred  thousan',  to  them  hungry- 
hearted  childr'n ! 

Every  close-earned  cent  I  planted  in  that  job,  I  state 
sincerely, 

Never  yet  has  failed  to  draw  reg'lar  compound  in 
terest  yearly. 

How  we  wrapped  the  Chris'mas  spirit  'round  them 

thirteen  ragged  darlings! 
(Childr'n  was  the  only  things  that  wasn't  scarce,  at 

ol1  man  Starling's) 
How  the  small  gals  hugged  their  dolls!  till  it  raised 

the  vital  question 
If  the  stirred-up  sawdust  in  'em  wouldn't  produce  an 

indigestion ! 
How  the  small  boys  whipped  their  drums!  till  the 

whole  estate  seemed  wearing 
Echoes  something  like  a  boiler  in  the  process  of 

repairing! 

How  the  mother  of  the  house  watched  the  new 
administration — 

Hardly  knowin'  which  to  feel— pleasure  or  humilia 
tion! 


Drifted   In. 

How  the  big  boys  yelled  with  joy,  'round  among  their 

presents  hopping, 
When  they  come  home  from  the  woods,  where  their 

dad  had  kept  them  chopping! 
How  we  wondered  if  a  storm  in  the  old  man's  head 

was  brewin', 
An'  if  wrathful  shame  would  rise,  when  he  see  what 

we  was  doin'! 

Not  a  shame! — he  stood  an'  grinned,  sayin'  "Ain't 

this  new  an'  funny! 
Thank  you,  neighbors:  these  here  trinkets  ought  to 

fetch  a  sight  of  money. 
But  you've  made  a  small  mistake — or  a  big  omission, 

rather: 
I  don't  find  no  present  here  for  the  fam'ly's  sufferin' 

father!" 
Then  Mose  Griggs,  a  half-growed  giant,  with  con- 

sid'ble  fun  behind  it, 
Says,  "You  turn  around  a  minute,  an'  I'll  see  if  I  can 

find  it." 

So  old  Starling  turned  around,  something  for  himself 
expectin', 

An'  received  a  gift  that  long  mingled  with  his  rec 
ollection. 

He  was  in  the  sittin'-room,  when  the  gift  to  him  was 
handed, 

He  was  in  the  dinin'-room,  when  upon  his  back  he 
landed. 

"If  you  use  these  presents  here  in  the  way  your  talk 
discloses, 

I'll  give  you  another  trip — to'rds  the  sittin-room," 
says  Moses. 

70 


Three  Christmasses. 

Mad  enough  he  was,  to  fight !  but  our  laughter  inter 
ceded, 

An'  convinced  the  man  at  last,  that  he'd  got  the  gift 
he  needed. 

An'  next  year,  at  Chris'mas-time,  he  took  some 
expense  an'  bother, 

An'  the  childr'n  all  got  presents  from  their  stingy 
rich  ol'  father. 

Meanwhile  he  embraced  religion,  which  same  caused 
it,  some  supposes: 

But  I  al'ays  set  great  store  on  the  gift  he  got  from 
Moses. 


Uprose  a  person  a  stranger  would 

Find  hard  to  study:  his  garb  was  good, 

His  manners  civil,  his  conduct  fair, 

And  yet  there  was  somewhat  in  his  air, 

That  made  one  think  of  the  men  who  roam 

At  large,  with  peripatetic  home, 

Each  lodging  where  he  can  climb  or  creep, 

To  give  the  world  and  himself  a  sleep; 

Each  dining  where  he  can  coax  his  way, 

And  eat  the  most  for  the  least  of  pay. 

This  man,  half  modest  and  yet  half  bold, 

The  following  singular  story  told, 

And  vowed  'twas  true  to  the  core — the  while 

His  wife  sat  near  with  quizzical  smile: 

(THREE  CHRISTMASSES.) 

Yes,  I'm  a  tramp !  and  perhaps  you'd  know  it 

Without  my  saying  a  word :  I  show  it 

By  something  that  won't  down,  once  in  a  while; 

71 


Drifted   In. 

It's  hard  to  be  wandering  mile  on  mile, 
And  keep  the  distances  out  of  your  style; 
To  bar  the  world  from  an  interference 
Along  of  your  personal  appearance; 
To  keep  from  becoming,  day  by  day, 
A  live  cyclometer,  one  might  say, 
And  storing  the  thousands  of  miles  away. 
And  I  have  been  over  land  enough, 
Wooded  and  prairied  and  smooth  and  rough, 
To  make  a  world  of  itself;  though  I 
Should  hope  for  a  somewhat  clearer  sky, 
And  less  of  hurly-burly  and  sin: 
Another  world  from  the  kind  we're  in. 

No!  I  couldn't  tell  you  the  roads  I've  travelled, 
Mudded,  and  sanded,  and  ironed,  and  gravelled, 
Creeping  along  by  the  hedge's  side, 
Or  climbing  the  trains  and  cribbing  a  ride, 
Or  packing  myself  'mongst  boxes  and  jars, 
Or  stringing  a  hammock  under  the  cars, 
And  other  methods  of  beating  my  way 
That  tramps  discover  from  day  to  day — 
Since  once     ...     in  a  sweet  and  dainty  dwell 
ing     .     .     „ 
There    happened    something    that    wouldn't    bear 

telling, 

For  many  a  moon — though  now  I  may 
Tell  it  before  I  am  through  today. 
But  it  made  me  a  hater  of  homes,  you  see, 
Although  not  quite  of  a  low  degree, 
And  I  said,  "I'm  a  tramp  and  shall  always  be." 

Twas  Christmas  mornipg,  some  years  ago, 
For  a  year  I  had  wandered  to  and  fro; 

72 


Three  Christmasses. 

I  was  down  on  my  luck  that  day;  and  so 

Of  course  sweet  Memory  took  a  start, 

And  gave  me  an  extra  stab  in  the  heart, 

And  set  me  to  thinking,  again  and  again, 

Of  "things  that  might,"  but  could  not  "have  been." 

And  just  as  I  crawled  out,  helter-skelter, 

From  the  stack-hotel  that  gave  me  shelter, 

I  heard  in  the  morning  bright  and  fair, 

Some  bells  that  rang  through  the  distant  air; 

And   things   couldn't   have   been   more   handy,   you 

see, 

To  bring  my  homelessness  home  to  me; 
And  I  wondered  how  long  a  soul  could  last, 
And  be  alone;  and  my  heart  quick  passed 
Back  to  that  Christmas  I  found  my  wife 
Kissing  a  stranger — then  wrenched  my  life 
Away  from  her  own;  and,  leaving,  swore 
Never  again  to  pass  that  door. 

While  thinking  of  all  these  things,  and  more, 
I  saw  three  horses  beside  the  road, 
With  never  harness  or  collar  or  load; 
And  two  of  them  seemed  to  be  talking  together, 
There  in  that  spring-like  winter  weather, 
As  if  each  one  to  the  other  would  say, 
"What  is  there  for  us  in  this  Christmas  day?" 
And  one  of  them  'neath  a  tree  alone, 
As  if  to  the  others  he  was  not  known, 
Seemed  to  be  having  some  thoughts  of  his  own. 
Now  fodder  was  terribly  scarce  and  dear, 
And  horses  cheaper  than  cats,  that  year; 
And   each    of   their   necks   bore   a   placard,   which 
read, 

73 


Drifted   In. 

"Whoever  will  see  that  this  horse  is  fed 
Three  times  per  day,  can  have  him  free."* 

And  the  odd  horse  walked  up  nearer  to  me, 

As  if  to  give  me  a  chance  to  con 

The  curious  motto  that  he  had  on, 

And  something  or  other  in  his  way 

Brought  back  a  horse  that  we  lost  one  day 

When  I  was  a  boy,  and  had  to  cry; 

And  something  or  other  in  his  eye 

Made  me  suspect  that  perhaps  the  scamp 

Was  really  born  to  become  a  tramp; 

And  also  it  seemed  as  if  he'd  been  waiting 

For  me  to  come;  and  without  debating 

If  I  was  able  av  horse  to  keep, 

I  felt  in  my  pockets  long  and  deep, 

And  found  some  twine;  and  slipped  it  round 

The  horse's  nose;  and  with  a  bound, 

Was  on  his  back;  and  we  skipped  away 

Through    the    brightening  dawn    of   that  Christmas 

day. 

The  horse  seemed  willing  and  glad  to  go; 
And  appeared  from  the  very  first  to  know 
That  he  was  my  big  though  humble  brother, 
And  we  were  company  for  each  other. 
And  I'd  have  worked  my  fingers  to  bone, 
Before  again  I'd  have  traveled  alone. 


*  During  the  early  part  of  the  nineties,  many  farmers 
reluctantly  offered  to  give  away  horses  to  any  one  who 
would  take  good  care  of  them,  as  their  keeping  through  the 
winter  would  cost  more  than  they  were  worth.  Horses  deck 
ed  with  labels  similar  to  the  one  above  mentioned  were  seen 
along  highways  In  several  of  the  Western  States 

74 


Three  Christmasses. 

Now  I  am  a  tramp  that  never  steals, 

From  man  or  horse,  and  he  had  three  meals 

Whether  I  did  or  not;  and  often 

I  fancied  I  saw  his  black  eyes  soften 

And  maybe  a  bit  with  tear-drops  dim, 

While  he  munched  the  food  that  I  earned  for  him. 

(But  that  was  imagination,  I  guess; 

For  I  never  noticed  him  eat  the  less.) 

And  after  awhile  it  happened  that  he 

Could  earn  a  dinner  sometimes  for  me; 

And  once,  when  feeling  of  work  a  lack, 

I  hired  for  a  week  a  license  and  hack, 

From  a  man  whose  horse  had  been  driven  dead, 

And  I  laid  up  a  dollar  or  two  ahead. 

But  Nicholas   (my  nag's  name,  because 

Of  the  Christmas  present  he  really  was) 

Like  a  true  tramp  grew  sad  of  face, 

At  living  too  long  in  a  single  place. 

And  so,  through  different  roads  and  weather, 

We  started  off,  once  more,  together. 

And  several  times  the  fellow  showed 

That  he  had  blood  that  could  keep  the  road 

From  seeing  much  more  than  his  shadow;  and  once 

A  sheriff,  a  srupid,  ambitious  dunce, 

Got  it  put  into  his  shallow  head 

That  I  was  a  horse-thief,  and  found,  as  I  sped, 

That  I  was  a  racing-man  instead, 

And  could  go  along  my  chosen  route, 

Faster  than  he  could  ride  or  shoot. 

And  once,  in  a  half-hour  brilliant  and  brief, 

I  helped  a  constable  catch  a  thief. 

So,  Nicholas  came  at  last  to  be 

Almost  everything  to  me; 

75 


Drifted   In. 

And  I  thought,  with  a  feeling  half-inhuman, 
"A  horse  is  faithfuller  than  a  woman." 

Well,  two  or  three  Christmasses  passed  away, 
And  finally  one  found  us  astray 
In  Southern  mountains;  whose  peaks  of  blue 
Were  smiling  and  scowling  the  whole  week  throu^ 
And  sudden  we  heard  a  rumbling  sound; 
And  halting  a  minute,  and  looking  around, 
I  saw  in  the  distance,  coming  fast, 
A  coach  and  six  horses;  and  they  swept  past 
With  tourists  chatting  in  loud  shrill  speech, 
Of  the  Christmas  dinner  they  soon  should  reach; 
When  a  broken  strap  set  their  leaders  a-fright, 
And  soon  the  six,  with  a  whirlwind's  might, 
Weie  coursing  the  mountain's  rough-roaded  side, 
With  dropped  reins  fluttering  far  and  wide; 
For  the  driver  was  dazed  and  stupefied. 
While  loud  shrieks  born  of  sudden  fears, 
Came  back  in  a  crowd  to  my  startled  ears. 

Then  I  said  to  Nicholas,  "We  will  see 
What  mettle  there  is  in  you  and  me." 
And  off  in  a  moment's  time  we  flew, 
Chasing  the  flying  wreck!  and  drew 
Nearer  and  nearer;  though  'twas  a  race 
In  which  we  had  started  second  place. 
Swift  as  a  bullet  my  good  horse  made 
His  course  past  the  swinging  cavalcade, 
That  glutted  the  roadbed  here  and  there, 
With  hardly  the  width  of  a  horse  to  spare; 
And  on  we  rushed,  and  the  lead  we  sought; 
Till  at  last  a  horse's  bridle  I  caught, 

76 


Three  Christmasses. 

And,  as  like  a  storm  we  onward  strode, 

I  kept  the  whole  of  them  in  the  road. 

And  coming  to  where  a  hill  upbore 

For  full  the  half  of  a  mile  or  more, 

They  tired  and  halted,  as  horses  will, 

And  soon  I  had  soothed  them,  and  made  them  still. 

As  out  of  the  coach  .the  passengers  climbed, 
Their  thanks  and  praise  in  my  hearing  chimed; 
But  I  saw  only  two:  and  one  was  the  man 
From  whom  my  wanderings  began 
On  that  fatal  Christmas;  the  other  was  she — 
The  wife  who  had  made  a  tramp  of  me. 

I  glared  at  them  both  with  fierce  ungrace; 

But  my  wife  spoke  up  with  laughing  face — 

How  could  she,  I  thought! — "So  we've  found  you 

at  last 

Or  you  have  us — and  we'll  hold  you  fast, 
After  hunting  and  hunting  and  hunting  for  you 
Some  eight  or  ten  times  the  country  through, 
'Mid  all  of  the  heats  and  colds  and  damps, 
And  nearly  ourselves  becoming  tramps. 
This  if  you  please  is  my  brother  here 
Come  back  from  India,  with  a  mere 
Eighty  or  ninety  thousand  a  year,— 
A  brother  I  can't  afford  to  lose; 
I  shall  kiss  him,  sir,  just  as  much  as  I  choose, 
And  he  shall  me,  to  his  heart's  content, 
And  should,  if  he  wasn't  worth  a  cent. 
I  like  your  horse's  looks  and  ways: 
He  shall  be  my  own  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 
And  you — you  good-for-nothing  fine 
Rough  sweet  dear  cross  old  husband  of  mine, 

77 


Drifted   In. 

Turn  over  another  leaf  in  life: 

Shake  hands  with  your  brother  and  kiss  your  wife." 

Now,  Nicholas  has  no  use  for  me, 
But  follows  her  round,  meek  as  can  be; 
And  more  things  happen,  from  day  to  day, 
Which  lead  me  again  and  again  to  say, 
Of  God's  strange  creatures — great  and  small — 
"A  woman's  faithfullest  of  them  all." 


And  now  arose  in  the  courteous  stare, 
A  dear  old  lady,  as  sweet  and  fan- 
As  damask  roses;  her  four-score  years 
Had  not  been  burdens  of  smileless  tears, 
Or  tearless  smiles:  she  had  used  as  aids 
The  joys  and  griefs  of  her  four  decades. 
Each  birthday  chime  to  her  form  and  face 
Had  brought  some  newly  unconscious  grace; 
Life's  luxuries  all  had  striven  in  vain 
To  harden  her  heart  or  clog  her  brain; 
Prosperity  decked  her  life  with  blooms, 

Gems  could  new  lustre  from  her  receive; 
Her  gowns  were  woven  in  costliest  looms, 

Her  laces  such  as  the  fairies  weave; 
Rich  diamonds  centuries  old,  astir 
With  new  magnificence,  greeted  her; 
The  rich  sea-oyster  had  covered  oft 
The  mote  that  vexed  it,  with  velvets  soft, 
So  it  might  harden  and  beam — a  pearl — 
To  smile  with  this  never-ageing  girl. 
How  thus  did  this  woman  garner  youth? — 
She  studied  and  travelled  the  roads  of  truth; 

78 


Christmas   in  the   Hospital. 

She  scanned  the  body  and  mind  each  day, 
That  both  be  given  the  right  of  way; 
She  opened  the  sky-lights  of  her  soul, 
And  asked  for  the  Great  Real  World's  control; 
And  having  plotted  the  best  one  could, 
As  God  and  Nature  had  meant  she  should, 
Then  waited  and  prayed,  with  modest  zest, 
For  God  arid  Nature  to  do  the  rest. 
But  not  in  idleness  waited  she: 

Her  deeds  of  mercy  full  oft  unknown 
In  records  such  as  the  mortals  see, 

Were  sculptured  on  the  eternal  throne. 
The  pleasure  of  others  she  could  employ, 
To  breed  for  herself  the  purest  joy. 

And  who  could  but  list,  as  with  cadence  sweet, 
She  read  these  lines  with  unconscious  art — 

And  honest  applause  they  would  never  meet, 
If  voiced  from  a  less  delightful  heart? 


(CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  HOSPITAL.) 

Lay  an  old  man  'mid  the  darkness  of  a  rudely  fur 
nished  room, 

While  the  Christmas  bells  were  searching  through 
the  early  morning's  gloom. 

Not  in  costly  vestments  lay  he,  such  as  o'er  him  once 
might  fall; 

Not  with  comforts  at  his  bidding,  or  with  servants  at 
his  call; 

Not  with  gold  and  silver  pleading  that  the  hungry 
eyes  rejoice; 

79 


Drifted   In. 

Not  with  silken  banknotes  whisp'ring  to  the  magic  of 
his  voice; 

Not  with  loving  kin  around  him,  eager,  in  the  morn 
ing  light, 

With  fond  gifts  demurely  hidden,  all  the  more  to 
glad  his  sight; 

No:  in  pain-environed  precincts  of  a  hospital  he  lay, 

With  gaunt  poverty  around  him — waiting  for  the 
dawn  of  day. 

Then  the  glad  bells  ceased  their  ringing,  and  the  old 

man,  sad  and  lone, 
Felt  the  torture  of  the  absence  of  the  hearts  that 

were  his  own; 
And  his  thoughts  ran  back  to  mornings  when  he 

hailed  with  joy  that  day: 
When  a  Christmas  meant  a  triumph,  and  the  world 

was  sweet  and  gay. 
"O  my  peerless  Christ!"  he  murmured:  "you  whose 

justice  never  flags! 
Is't  because  I  strove  to  serve  you,  that  I  lie  today 

in  rags? 

"All  the  bright  years  that  I  prospered,  never  once  I 

thought  of  gain, 
But  to  make  my  earth-mates  happy,   and  to   ease 

them  of  their  pain. 
All   these   long   years   hard   I    labored — with    each 

waking  breath  I  drew, 
Not  for  friend  and  neighbor  only,  but  for  every  one 

I  knew! 
Toiled  I  not  alone  for  even  those  that  near  me  did 

abide — 

80 


Christmas  in  the  Hospital. 

But  for  those  whose  needs  were  calling  from  the 
ocean's  farther  side; 

Toiled  I  not  alone  for  mortals  who  into  my  friend 
ship  came, 

But  for  those  who  wrecked  my  fortunes — and  who 
plotted  for  my  shame. 

Toiled  I  not  alone  'mid  riches:  but  with  nought  to 
call  mine  own, 

Still  I  strove  with  mind  and  heart-throbs,  for  the 
sufferings  I  have  known. 

"Do  not  think,  O  Christ!  that  boasting  I  would  call 

upon  thy  name: 
Do  not  think,  O  blameless  martyr!  that  I  come  to 

thee  with  blame! 
Do  not  think,  O  Prince  imprisoned  in  a  world  of 

endless  strife, 
That  I  have  not  conned  the  lessons    of   thy    grand 

unselfish  life; 
I  have  suffered,  I  will  suffer,  any  torture  from  thy 

hand: 
I    just   tell   thee — as    my   teacher — that  .1    do    not 

understand." 

Thus  in  misery  and  in  sorrow,  and  in  meditation 

deep, 
With  his  woe  and  pain  exhausted,  sank  the  sufferer 

into  sleep: 
Sleep  as  deep  and  full  of  mercy  as  a  mortal  e'er  can 

find- 
Walking  in  the  stillest  regions  of  the  ocean  of  the 

mind ; 

81 


Drifted   In. 

Sleep  that  maybe  guides  to  regions  that  so  flooded 
are  with  light, 

That  the  very  sun  above  us  seems  a  spectre  of  the 
night; 

Sleep  that  maybe  shuts  from  hearing  every  human 
sound  and  word, 

So  that  angels  venture  nearer,  and  can  whisper  and 
be  heard. 

Dearest  Sleep!  that  smooths  to  velvet  all  the  rough 
ness  of  the  ways — 

Dearest  Sleep!  the  star-gemmed  cushion  'twixt  the 
jostling  of  the  days! 

What  is  this!  a  dream — a  vision — that  his  senses 

overpowers  ? 
Or  are  those  but  dreams  and  visions,  that  we  call  the 

waking  hours? 
Does  the  absence  of  the  clamor  of  the  daylight*  oft 

reveal 
That   the   things   we    know   are   shadows,    and   the 

unknown  is  the  real? 

He   was   in   a   stately   mansion:    with   unnumbered 

gilded  halls, 
And  a  thousand  splendid  pictures  flashing  from  the 

stately  walls. 
'Neath  his  feet  were  gorgeous  carpets  never  known 

to  earthly  loom, 
Round  him  lamps  of  softened  splendor  smiled  their 

cheer  throughout  the  room; 
Mirrors   framed  with   skill   and   cunning  made  the 

palace-splendors  more, 

82 


Christmas  in  the  Hospital. 

And  repeated  all  its  treasures  to  the  glad  eye  o'er 

and  o'er; 
Out  of  lofty  little  mansions  floated  music  sweetly 

clear, 
Such  as  never  yet  was  mortal  on  this  earth  allowed 

to  hear. 

And  alone  but  for  a  moment    did    this    wondering 

pilgrim  stand; 
Came  his  wife  and  came  his    children:    and    they 

clung  unto  his  hand. 
Came  a  thousand  friends  and  neighbors  whose  loved 

names  were  covered  o'er 
By  the  moss  of  many  summers,  on  the  green  grave's 

marble  door; 
Came  a  father  with  a  smile  that  now  was  rested  and 

serene ; 
And  upon  his  arm  a  mother  whom  he  ne'er  before 

had  seen; 
Came  a  thousand,  shining  brighter  for  the  dark  of 

Death's  eclipse, 
With  the  simple  words  "You  helped  me"  on  their 

true  and  grateful  lips. 

Then  came  Christ,  and  said,  "Not  longer  much,  your 
good  brave  life  endures: 

Then  this  mansion  and  these  hand-clasps  all  forever- 
more  are  yours." 

Nurses  wondered  on  the  morrow,  why  the  look  of 

pain  and  woe 
Had  departed  from  the  patient  that  had  grieved  and 

suffered  so; 

83 


Drifted   In. 

But  he  knew:  and  with  rejoicing  oft  he  murmured 

o'er  and  o'er, 
"My  next  Christmas  casts  not  shadows,  but  a  blessed 

light,  before!" 


There  was  a  singer  upon  the  train, 
Who — words  half  useless !  had  toiled  in  vain 
An  inland  city  to  reach  that  night, 
Where  placards  staring  in  letters  bright, 
Had  told  his  admirers,  day  by  day, 
That  melody  soon  would  come  that  way. 
A  song  we  asked  from  this  prince  of  song: 
But  he,  unwilling  to  do  what  long 
He'd  done  as  a  task,  would  rather  try 

To  do  some  thing  that  he  did  not  do 
Except  for  pleasure;  and  bye  and  bye 

He  told  this  story,  which  may  be  true: 

(THE  WAIF'S  THANKSGIVING.) 

Way  up  in  the  loft,  with  cadence  soft, 

The  silvery  chimes  were  ringing, 
And  through  the  glare  of  the  Autumn  air, 

Thanksgiving-hymns  were  singing: 
Golden  chimes  that  brought  the  rhymes, 
The  sacred  songs,  of  good  old  times 
Back  to  the  worldling's  wakened  ear, 
And  drew  some  quaint  old  church  more  near, 
That  maybe  had  crumbled  many  a  year. 

And  coachmen  laced  and  stolid-faced 
Drove  up  to  the  church's  portal; 

84 


The   Waifs   Thanksgiving* 

And  men  once  more  passed  through  the  door 

To  thank  the  King  Immortal, 
And  hear  the  music  that  decked  the  day, 
And  look  at  the  altar's  new  display: 
For  such  is  ever  the  human  way. 

Now  out  in  the  street,  with  half-clad  feet, 
And  garments  shabbily  clinging, 

A  child  there  stood  in  a  dreamy  mood, 
And  harked  to  the  church-bells'  ringing, 

With  thin  hand  pressed  against  her  breast, 

As  if  the  harmony  gave  her  rest; 

As  if  each  note,  as  it  softly  stole 

Out  of  its  swinging  brazen  bowl, 

Was  a  morsel  of  food  to  her  hungry  soul. 

But  when  like  a  band  from  unseen  land 

That  with  the  world  rejoices, 
The  organ  hurled  to  the  outside  world 

A  hundred  silver  voices, 
Into  the  eyes  of  the  child  there  came 
A  torch  as  lit  by  a  sudden  flame; 
And  through  her  memory  seemed  to  flow 
Something  she  still  must  come  to  know, 
And  yet  had  forgotten  long  ago. 

And  none  the  less  for  her  ragged  dress 

She  sped  to  the  door — unfearing; 
And  through  she  went,  her  soul  intent 

On  the  strains  of  music  hearing. 
Her  great  sad  eyes  bedecked  with  dew, 
She  passed  along  with  the  others  through, 
And  seated  herself  in  a  velvet  pew! 

85 


Drifted  In. 

The  sexton  gazed  with  an  eye  amazed, 

Upon  this  odd  intrusion: 
And  his  laundried  sheen  and  placid  mien 

Were  canopied  with  confusion. 
Out  of  the  door  he  quickly  led 
The  little  maid;  and  brusquely  said, 
"There  are  churches  enough  for  you  instead/ 

But  still  the  sound  of  the  organ  drowned 
The  noise  of  her  heart's  complaining; 

Now  with  echoes  choice  of  the  h'uman  voice, 
And  a  queen-soprano   reigning! 

She  crept  to  the  hall — nor  lingered  there; 

But  climbed  to  the  gallery's  utmost  stair, 

And  with  her  changing  eyes  on  fire 

With  new  ambition  and  old  desire, 

She  gazed  at  the  organ  and  the  choir. 

The  chief  of  the  song,  with  baton  long, 

Was  numbering  each  bright  measure, 

But  looking  around  the  child  he  found, 

And  scowled  his  dark  displeasure; 
His  eyes  and  his  lip  and  his  baton  dropped, 
And  well  that  the  music  had  not  stopped! 
He  never  had  known  a  guest  like  that: 
There  came  from  his  mouth  a  hissing  "Skat!"- 
She  skurried  away  like  a  frightened  cat. 

And  out  in  the  street  once  more  her  feet 

On  the  flinty  curb  were  falling, 
And  still  from  within  the  delicious  din 

Of  music's  voice  was  calling, 

86 


*SHE    GAZED    AT    THE    ORGAN    AND    THE    CHOIR" 


The  Waifs  Thanksgiving. 

And  still  for  a  place  to  hear  in  search, 
She  walked  the  length  of  the  palace-church, 
And  finding  an  open  vestry  door, 
Crept  into  the  stately  house  once  more, 
And  started  this  region  to  explore. 

A  passage  in  haste  the  child  yet  traced, 

And  then  to  her  consternation 
On  the  platform  high  stood  in  the  eye 

Of  the  wondering  congregation! 
The  ragged  girl  in  the  stylish  place 
Made  smiles  go  leaping  from  face  to  face. 
The  pastor  turned  and  saw  her  near: 
A  man  that  the  people  loved  to  hear, 
At  several  thousand  dollars  a  year; 

But  with  each  day  he  toiled  his  way 
With  requisite  fear  and  trembling, 
And  with  no  tone  addressed  the  throne, 

Of  boldness  or  dissembling. 
Striving  God's  heart  and  a  child's  to  please, 
On  the  sofa  he  seated  the  girl  at  ease: 
Saying    "  'Unless    we    become    as    the  least  of 
these.'  " 

The  whole  hour  long,  to  sermon  and  song, 

With  eyes  that  fitfully  glistened 
And  cheeks  that  burned  with  joy  new-learned, 

The  tiny  maiden  listened. 
And  now  that  a  few  more  years  are  fled, 
The  waif  is  a  singer  of  songs  instead; 
Aglow  with  that  suddenly  kindled  flame, 

87 


Drifted   In. 

She  treads  the  heights  of  a  splendid  fame: 
You  would  know  her  well,  did  I  tell  her  name. 


The  storm  was  resting :  the  clouds  once  more 

Had  given  our  sky  an  open  door, 

And  like  a  friend  that  we  long  since  knew, 

Back  came  the  sun.     Then  our  Captain  drew 

A  watch  of  sturdy  and  tarnished  form, 

That  calmly  had  ticked  through  many  a  storm, 

In  scenes  with  deadlier  danger  blent, 

And  much  less  stable  environment. 

He  saw  that  its  two  hands  that  agreed 

Just  twice  each  day — the  longer  brother 
(As — speaking  exactly — there  was  need) 

Else  always  criticizing  the  other, 
Were  soon  to  be  pointing  toward  the  sky, 

Both  joining  together  their  persons  and  power, 
As  if  to  solemnly  testify 

That  noon's  high  twelve  was  the  reigning  hour. 
From  his  belongings  a  sextant  came, 
Which  knowledge  drew  from  the  sun's  gold  flame. 
Our  latitude  and  our  longitude 
He  solved  from  the  studies  he  had  pursued 
In  Ocean's  great  University, 
Where  libraries  all  about  there  be, 
Whose  books  have  the  clouds  and  stars  for  shelves, 
And  rustling  leaflets  that  turn  themselves. 
And  with  maps  spread  about  him  there, 
He  held  the  point  of  a  penknife  where 
In  sturdily  builded  hardihood, 
Our  half  luxurious  prison  stood. 

88 


Drifted   In. 

The  passengers  filed  about  the  chart 

With  curiosity  naively  shown, 
To  view  the  place  where  we  lay  apart 

In  town  to  us  heretofore  unknown — 
And  from  this  happening  came  discourse 
Of  strange  adventures:  we  who  perforce 
Were  fixed  immovable,  here  to  stay, 
Sailed  oceans  thousands  of  miles  away, 
As  our  bronzed  seaman  strange  tales  rehearsed; 
And  we  in  his  wizardry  were  immersed, 
When  all  at  once,  to  this  listening-tide, 
Came  fierce  disruption :  A  BABY  CRIED  ! 

What  hubbub  followed! — the  audience  rushed 
To  watch  the  diminutive  monster's  gaze, 

And  strove  that  his  outcries  might  be  hushed 
In  possible  and  impossible  ways; 

With  everything,  from  nostrum  to  toy, 

A  baby  could  or  could  not  enjoy. 

"My  voyage  is  over" ! — our  Captain  said, 

With  smiling  visage  but  drooping  head, 

And  folded  his  map  and  laid  it  by. 

Nought  can  compete  with  an  infant's  cry! 
For  Nature  has  given  that  callow  voice 

The  rasp  of  an  uncloaked  sorrow:  'tis  why, 

Whoever  may  or  may  not  stand  by, 
It  leaves  most  mortals  but  little  choice. 
That  wail  of  helplessness,  kings  obey: 
It  will  forever  be  given  its  way. 

Now  half  an  hour  o,f  the  public  time 
Went  soothing  this  athlete  who'd  flown  or  crept 
So  lately  from  heaven: — no  wonder  he  wept, 


Drifted   In. 

Just  out  of  the  palaces  sublime, 

At  being  held  in  such  strange  duress 

Fast  in  the  snow  and  this  fast  express ! 

No  wonder  the  sacred  cry  of  dole 

Aroused  the  whole  of  our  motley  crew! 
No  wonder  the  chant  of  this  young  sad  soul 

Gained  pity  from  all  hearts  sound  and  true! 
And  those  that  were  not,  still  courted  peace, 
And,  anxious  to  have  the  tumult  cease, 
As  often  happens,  did  what  they  could — 
(For  their  own  sake)  for  the  public  good. 

When  quiet  caressed  the  thankful  throng, 

Rose  one  with  a  patriarchal  grace, 
And  told  this  story — though  somewhat  long, 

Not  inappropriate  to  the  case: 

% 

(OUR   MESSENGER   OUT   OF   THE    SKY.) 

My  son  and  his  wife  and  his  mother,  and  I,  at  the 
crest  of  a  hill, 

Dwelt  always  in  peace  with  each  other,  as  seldom 
such  families  will: 

For  no  one  was  tyrant  or  menial,  and  none  had  a 
talent  for  blame, 

And  all  of  our  hearts  were  congenial,  and  most  of 
our  views  were  the  same. 

Our  lives,  to  the  uttermost  oorder,  were  full  of  un 
specified  order, 
And  honest  and  generous  tact: 

And  yet,  day  by  day,  as  we  lived  on  our  way, 
There  was  something  or  other  we  lacked. 

90 


Our  Messenger  Out  of  the  Sky. 

Our  health  and  our  wealth  were  sufficient  to  keep 

us  good  friends  with  our  kin, 
The  aid  of  the  Father  Omniscient  we  pleaded  each 

morning  to  win; 
We   laughed   and   we   danced  with   our   neighbors, 

when  sons  or  when  daughters  were  wed, 
We  gave  them  a  lift  with  their  labors,  and  helped 

them  to  bury  their  dead. 
What  better  with  earth  can  endear  you,  than  love 

from  the  ones  that  are  near  you? — 
I  joyed  in  the  glittering  fact: 
And  yet  I  still  felt,  when  we  worked  or  we  knelt, 
There  was  something  or  other  we  lacked. 


My  son  and  his  wife  and  his  mother,  and  I,  ever 

strove  to  be  fair, 
Rememb'ring    each    man    was    our    brother,   and 

needed  some  sort  of  a  care; 
Rememb'ring  the  being  called  Woman  was  mother 

and  wife  of  the  race — 
Rememb'ring  that  all  who  were  human  might  some 

time  look  God  in  the  face. 
So  had  we  that  peace  in  our  living,  that  comes  from 

the  profit  of  giving, 
And  eases  the  burden  of  gain: 
But  still  in  our  joy  was  mysterious  alloy, 
A  secret  unknowable  pain. 

Ah! — one  day  there  came  to  our  dwelling  a  soft, 

gentle  word  from  on  high, 
By  one  who  first  wept  in  its  telling — a  messenger 

out  of  the  sky! 

91 


Drifted   In. 

By  one  with  the  natural  graces  with  which  Heaven 

had  sent  him  away — 
By  one  that  soon  smiled  in  our  faces,  and  strove  in 

our  bosoms  to  stay. 
And  now,  in  the  glorified  slaving  that  had  to  be 

wrought  in  his  saving, 
And  in  the  new  care  that  he  cost, 
Our  hungry  souls  grew,  and  we  very  soon  knew, 
What  we,  by  not  having,  had  lost. 

Our  sympathies  needed  expansion  akin  to  the  ages 

to  be; 
The  silences   chained    in  our  mansion  were   jaded, 

and  longed  to  be  free. 
The  silks  and  the  gems  and  the  laces  were  yearning 

for  younger  commands, 
The  lines  of  our  decorous   faces  grew  soft   in   a 

baby's  warm  hands. 
Some  books  needed  smirching  and  tearing — some 

clothes  wanted  juvenile  wearing — 
The  furniture  palled  with  its  worth — 
Till  the  child  to  us  given    from    the    regions    of 

Heaven, 
Raised — mischief  with  things  upon  earth. 

So  now,  with  this  troublesome  linking  with  futures 
not  wholly  our  own, 

We  presently  found  ourselves  drinking  new  pleas 
ures  we  never  had  known; 

The  ceaseless  anxieties  brought  us  a  needed  and 
exquisite  rest — 

The  baby's  wise  ignorance  taught  us  that  he  who 
is  simplest  is  best. 

92 


fNEW    PLEASURES    WE    NEVER    HAD    KNOWNJ 


Our  Messenger  Out  of  the  Sky. 

Our  little   Columbus   discovered  new  regions  that 
o'er  us  had  hovered 

Long  years,  without  being  descried: 
We  knew  not  aright  how  to  walk  through  the  light, 

Till  Heaven  sent  this  innocent  guide. 

O  God!  give  us  wisdom  to  steer  him  again  toward 
the  land  whence  he  came! 

Let  never  the  tempter  crouch  near  him,  with  smiles 
of  destruction  and  shame; 

Let  not  needless  harshness  embroil  him  with  mem 
ories  fierce  and  unkind: 

Let  not  our  love  weaken  and  spoil  him  with  reckless 
indulgence  and  blind. 

Let  manhood's  best  bravery  betide  him,  let  woman's 

best  influence  guide  him; 
While  thou,  i.i  thine  infinite  love, 

Shalt  smile  on  his  track,  and  at  death  take  him  back 
To  thy  beautiful  mansions  above! 


Next  rose,  the  occasion  to  assist, 

A  "promising  elocutionist." 

(His  rivals  averred,  with  jealousy  warmed, 

He  promised  much  more  than  he  performed; 

But  seldom  artist-sister  and  -brother 

See  half  the  excellence  of  each  other.) 

What  is  there  not  in  the  human  voice, 

To  make  humanity's  nerves  rejoice, 

Or  grieve,  as  its  master  may  make  the  choice? 

What  has  not  gesture  and  facial  art 

Achieved  with  the  human  mind  and  heart? 

In  every  country  and  every  realm, 

The  voice  can  flatter  or  overwhelm ; 

93 


Drifted   In. 

George  Whitefield  made  men  tremble  and  weep, 

Or  laugh  or  in  abject  terror  creep, 

Just  by  the  way  (from  his  friends'  accounts) 

He  "Mesopotamia"  could  pronounce. 

The  politicians  their  fences  bound 

With  sound  discourse  and  discourse  of  sound; 

And  even  the  social  words  are  sped 

More  thriftily,  when  in  soft  tones  said. 

And  this  our  elocutionist  courted 

The  graces  of  speech  that  had  been  taught  him, 
And  through  the  advantages  cavorted 

That  comely  body  and  features  brought  him; 
And  from  his  lips  a  paean  there  rolled, 
To  match  the  tale  that  had  just  been  told: 

(THE  COMING  OF  THE  KING.) 

Ring  the  farm-bell — toot  the  boat-horn — stir  the 

country  round; 
Telephone   to    all   the    neighbors  what  we    folks 

have  found! 
Raid  the  cellar  to  a  famine — make  the  kitchen 

gleam, 
Pile   the  tables   full  of  victuals,  till  the   dishes 

steam ! 
An*  if  a  tramp  comes  to  the  door,  we'll  feed  him 

full  an'  right, 

An*  tell  him  of  the  little    tramp  that  come  to  us  to 
night: 
With  not  a  sin  to  worry  him,  or  cloud  his  won- 

derin'  eye; 
As  innocent  as  angels  is  that  never  leave  the  sky. 

94 


The  Coming  of  the  King. 

Feed  the  horses — stuff    the    cattle,    till    they're 

doubly  dumb; 
Make  'em  eat  a  royal  banquet,  now  the  king  has 

come! 
In   his   eyes    are    costly    jewels,    velvets    in    his 

hand; 
In  his  voice  are  strains  of  music,  sweeter  than 

the  band. 
We  had  a  grown  republic  here,  for  many  seasons 

past, 
But  now  it's  just  a  monarchy — the  king  has  come 

at  last! 
My  wife  an'  I,  my  son,  his  wife,  forehanded  one 

might  call: 

But  here's  a  little  millionaire  that  re'lly  owns  us 
all! 

Did  you  ever  see  a  lan'scape  pleasant  in  the 

face, 
All  the  hills  an'  trees  an'  valleys  in  their  proper 

place : 
But  there's  somethin'   lackin'— lackin' !  still   you 

often  said: 
Life  is  there,  but   'tain't  alive!   kep'   runnin'   in 

your  head? 
An'  then  the  clouds  they  cleared  away,  an'  showed 

you  to  the  sky, 
An'  then  you  heard  the  robins  sing,  and  see  the 

bluebirds  fly; 
An'  then  come  out  the  great  glad  sun,  a-makin' 

extra  cheer, 

An'  that's  the  very  same  complaint  we're  laborhV 
under  here. 

95 


Drifted   In. 

Spile  him? — yes,  I  s'pose  we'll  spile  him,  to  a 

small  degree; 
He  will  want  the  world  to  play  with,  just  like 

you  an'  me; 
He  shall  hev  it,  for  a  season;  but  he'll  soon  be 

taught 
That    there's    nothin'  worth    the    havin',  till    it's 

fairly  bought. 
An*  then  he'll  grow  to  be  a  man,  an'  pay  off  all 

his  debt, 
A   Gov'nor  or  a  President,   or  somethin'   grander 

yet; 
But  I'll  be  suited  well  enough,  if  he'll  do  well's  he 

can, 

An'  straighten  up,  an'  grow  to  be  a  good  ol'-ftsh- 
ioned  man. 


A  college  teacher  sat  in  our  throng, 
Whose  chair  was  one  that  did  not  belong 
O'er  frequent,  if  ever  before,  in  camps 
Alight  with  the  midnight  study-lamps, 
Or  wassailing-glims  that  oft  we  see : 
"Professor  of  Ancient  Mounds"  was  he. 

Twas  his  to  study  that  voiceless  past 
That  makes  our  own  antiquity  vast 
Beyond  computing :  as  yet  no  word 
From  those  far  vanished  tribes  is  heard, 
For  even  their  tombs  are  voiceless  now. 
They  long  had  lived,  ere  Columbus'  prow 
Cut  swift  through  the  West  Atlantic's  wave, 
And  dug,  as  it  went,  the  Indian's  grave. 

96 


The  Oil-Mounds. 

This  strange  professorship,  was,  'twas  said, 

Endowed  by  an  old  man  long  since  dead, 

Whose  farm  had  mounds :  and  who  long  had  dreamed 

Of  their  dust  tenants,  until  it  seemed 

To  him  almost  that  those  hosts  might  be 

A  part  of  his  own  ancestral  tree. 

And  in  his  visions  he  "stocked"  that  farm 

With  city  splendors  of  ancient  date: 
The  warrior's  valor,  the  virgin's  charm, 

The  emperor,  sitting  in  gilded  state; 
And,  digging  and  digging  within  a  mound 
Where  he  strange  traces  of  them  had  found, 
And  sinking  shafts  long  distances  more, 
Their  possible  cellarage  to  explore, 
Thus  hoping  there  yet  might  records  be 
That  now  America  first  should  see, 
He  struck — not  records,  but  oil!  that  old 
Yet  newly  discovered  liquid  gold 
Came  spouting,  as  if  those  spirit-strays 
From  mound-men — history's  castaways — 
Had  brought  him  a  gift.     It  came — to  spare! 
In  lake-fulls — calling  the  thrifty  there, 
By  scores  and  hundreds.     He  urged  them  back, 
And  strove  to  cumber  their  eager  track: 
But  what  can  hinder  the  headlong  rush 
Of  money  for  money?  'twill  blight  and  crush 
The  loveliest  view  that  the  fancy  feeds. 
Brain  cannot  cope  with  primitive  needs. 
His  phantom  city,  'mid  this  turmoil, 
Was  inundated  with  modern  oil; 
This  haunt  of  the  knights  and  armored  hosts 

Was  now  a  camp  of  prosperity, 

97 


Drifted   In. 

With  derricks  standing  like  wooden  ghosts, 

In  unimpeachable  verity. 
So,  spite  of  himself,  our  peasant  there, 
Became  twice  over  a  millionaire, 
But  lost  his  great  grand  city.     His  dreams 
Of  ancient  splendor,  soaked  through  with  streams 
Of  modern  oleaginous  thrift, 
Were  now  on  the  seas  of  wealth  adrift, 
And  he  was  drear  and  unsatisfied : 
And,  weary  and  poor,  this  Croesus  died. 
His  will  a  professorship  endowed, 

With  a  "large"  college,  in  his  name, 
To  teach  Moundology,  as  the  proud 

Astronomer  Watson,  wreathed  with  fame, 
Left  money  forever  to  be  employed 
In  tracing  the  route  of  each  asteroid 
He  had  discovered. — Our  millionaire 
Put  into  this  paid  professor's  care 
The  mounds  of  our  country;  and  willed  that  he 
Their  champion  and  historian  be, 
And  lecture  to  students,  upon  the  ways 
Of  men  of  the  unrecorded  days. 

It  goes  without  saying,  this  teacher's  task 
Was  such  as  no  easy  man  would  ask: 
'Twas  hard  the  material  to  procure, 
Without  the  aid  of  literature— 
That  coral  reef  of  the  clambering  mind. 
This  hard-worked  man,  who  could  only  find 
A  few  scant  relics  his  eyes  could  see, 
And  some  conjectures  that  disagree, 
Used  all  that  his  eager  hands  could  reach: 
But  teachers  must  teach  what  others  teach. 


To  the  Mound-Builders. 

So  pumping  away  at  an  unprimed  brain, 
His  ample  salary  to  retain, 

(He  had  an  expensive  family, 

Who  nothing  in  ancient  mounds  could  see) 
He  feared  that  he  yet  might  go  insane. 
And  this  short  poem  would  seem  to  tell 
The  mental  famine  that  him  befell, 
As  he  arose  and  in  plaintive  tone, 
Vouchsafed  to  the  throng  this  rhythmic  moan. 

(TO   THE  MOUND-BUILDERS.) 

Long  have  I  dreamed  o'er  your  clay-covered  dwel 
lings- 
Spectres  of  yore: 

Heroes  of  histories  vanished,  whose  telling, 
E'en,  is  no  more! 

Oft  will  the  grave,  with  its  monuments  singing 
Praise,  e'en  through  silence  be  heard: 

Yours,  to  the  depths  of  Oblivion  clinging, 
Scorns  us,  and  deigns  not  a  word. 

Not  through  the  long  fickle  centuries  faring, 
Blest  and  unblest, 

Even  the  names  you  were  weary  of  wearing, 
Now  are  at  rest. 

Yet  do  you  tell  me,  though  mayhap  unwilling, 

Deeds  you  have  done: 
You  had  the  clouds  of  the  earth,  and  the  thrilling 

Fire  of  the  sun; 
You  had  the  keeping  of  Love's  kingly  treasure, 

Chained  with  the  mortgage  of  doubt  and  of  care; 
You  had  of  Hate's  mingled  torture  and  pleasure, 

99 


Drifted   In. 

Heavens  full  of  hope,  and  the  hells  of  despair. 
Forests  now  dead  heard  the  songs  of  your  dancing, 

In  the  gay  hour, 
Then  o'er  the  plains  blood-stained  legions  advancing, 

Crushed  every  flower. 

When  our  Today,  with  its  shout  and  its  gleaming, 

Lies  cold  and  dead, 
Still  will  the  child  of  the  future  be  dreaming 

Round  your  grim  bed. 
Here  the  ambitious,  whatever  his  choosing 

Proudly  immortal  to  be, 
Can,  by  this  lack  of  a  record  perusing, 

Learn  his  bleak  future  from  thee. 
Nought  born  of  earth  but  on  earth  has  to  perish, 

New  life  to  give; 
Only  the  soul  Heav'n  finds  worthy  to  cherish 

Has  long  to  live. 


This  sad  lament  was  given,  when  o'er, 
(Perhaps  satirical)  an  encore: 
And  then  he  arose  again,  to  tell 

In  softer  accents,  with  feeling  rife, 
How  a  chief,  by  students  he  loved  o'er  well 

Was  borne  to  the  bed  of  vanished  life: 

(THE  HEARSE  OF  HANDS.) 

Slowly  the  Teacher  wends  his  way 
Through  the  paths  of  a  summer  day; 
'Mid  the  balm  of  the  June's  sweet  breath, 
Into  the  campus  owned  by  Death. 

100 


The  Hearse  of  Hands. 

Silence  there  in  the  gateway  stands, 
Ready  to  clasp  his  faded  hands; 
Mounds  of  grasses  and  headstones  dim 
Long  have  waited  to  welcome  him. 

He  will  not  knock  at  a  stranger's  door: 
Teachers  and  preachers  have  gone  before. 
Bugle-voices  the  lands  have  heard, 
Welcome  him  with  no  welcome-word. 

Not  in  a  hearse,  with  plumes  of  black, 
Gliding  along  the  well-worn  track, 
Comes  this  moulder  of  brain  and  will, 
Now  so  newly  and  strangely  still: 

Not  in  a  lofty  funeral-car, 
Borne  to  rest,  as  the  warriors  are : 
Not  with  an  empty-saddled  horse, 
Rides  to  its  rest  this  hero-corse. 

Eight  strong  students,  with  measured  tread, 
Silently  bear  the  silent  dead; 
Eight  more  students  with  loving  face, 
Ever  are  waiting  the  honored  place. 

Thus  do  the  minds  this  master  taught 
Garland  his  road  with  tender  thought; 
Thus  does  each  student,  loving  much, 
Wait  for  the  thrill  of  his  casket's  touch. 

Thus  by  'the  ones  he  has  served  and  blessed, 
Slowly  the  Teacher  is  borne  to  rest : 

101 


Drifted  In. 

Grander  honor  could  never  be 
Paid  to  the  kings  of  land  or  sea. 


In  other  coaches,  by  young  and  old, 

The  following  measures  meanwhile  were  told: 

(UP-TRAIN  AND  DOWN-TRAIN.) 

One  eve  I  stepped  from  the  up-train  to  the  station 

platform  strong; 
And  just  that  minute  the  down-train  happened  to 

come  along. 

Till  once  more  started  the  up-train,  I  had  nothing 

else  to  do 
But  watch  the  halted  down-train,  as  I  stood  betwixt 

the  two. 

Gazing  there  at  the  down-train — its  sheltered  and 

cushioned  throng — 
There  with  my  back  to  the  other  track,  I  solemnly 

sang  this  song: 

"O  passengers  on  the  down-train,  how  little  your 

ways  you  heed! 
You  shut  your  eyes  and  know  nowise  what  'tis  you 

want  or  need!" 

And  never  a  passenger  looked  at  me,  or  nodded  or 

shook  his  head; 
And  with  a  smile,  "Thus  for  awhile  philosophers 

fare",  I  said. 

102 


Up  Train  and  Down  Train. 

But  still  with  my  back  to  the  up-train   (where  all 

my  luggage  lay), 
Just  out  of  its  view,  betwixt  the  two,  I  silently  had 

my  say: 

"O  you  who  are  on  the  down-train,  you  fidget  and 

stretch  and  yawn; 
Ere  scarce  the  train  a  station  gain,  you  are  anxious 

to  be  gone! 

"When,  part  of  a  mighty  cyclone,  you  rush  through 

the  shrieking  air, 
You  yawn  and  mope,  and  fret  and  hope,  and  wish 

that  you  were  'there' ! 

"Yes,  passengers  on  the  down-train,  you  wander  to 

and  fro; 
You  laugh  and  weep,  you  wake  and  sleep,  but  wist 

not  where  you  go! 

"Now,  I  am  upon  the  up-train,  with  reason  for  a 

guide; 
My  plans  I  make  and  seldom  break,  whatever  may 

betide." 

But  never  a  passenger  looked  at  me,  or  nodded  or 

shook  his  head; 
And  with  a  laugh,  "Tis  thus  we  quaff  the  cup  of 

neglect!"  I  said. 

Thus  I  talked  to  the  down-train,  till,  through  with 

its  business  stay, 
It  deemed  it  well  to  ring  its  bellf  and  quietly  steal 

away. 

103 


Drifted   In. 

And  then  I  turned  to  my  up-train,  but  lo!  it  had 

also  flown, 
And  I  with  my  good  sound  precepts,  stood  on  the 

platform  all  alone! 

And  no  one  cared  on  either  train  if  I  were  living 

or  dead; 

And,  laughing  anew,  "Tis  thus  your  true  philos 
opher  fares",  I  said. 


(AWAY  FROM  OUR  HOMES.) 

I  was  walking  the  edge  of  a  village  street — 

A  village  I  never  had   known  before — 
Where  two  highways  of  our  commerce  meet, 

And  clasp  iron  fingers,  and  meet  no  more.- 
While  soothing  an  hour  as  might  be  best 
Twixt  weary  journeys  to  north  and  west, 
And  lingering  over  gardens  wide 
Of  cottages  drowsing  side  by  side, 
And  glancing  into  the  green-walled  rooms 
Of  porches  sheltered  by  buds  and  blooms, 
And  musing,  amid  the  hourlets  still, 

"How  well  it  might  be  from  trouble  free — 
This  human  rill  by  the  grove-thatched  hill, 

So  far  from  my  city's  moaning  sea!" — 
There  came  to  the  startled  ear  a  brief 
But  sad  and  tremulous  sob  of  grief. 

Twas  a  tiny  boy,  in  golden  hair 

That  wooed  his  neck  with  a  kiss  of  curls, 
And  eyes  that  brightened  the  big  tears  there, 

104 


Away  From  Our  Homesr 

And  cheeks  as  sweet  as  the  cheeks  of  girls. 
Twas  easy  enough  to  see  how  brave 
The  battle  had  been,  his  pride  to  save; 
What  hosts  of  courage  were  doomed  to  drown 
In  tears  he  fought,  but  that  would  not  down:. 
The  strife  that  the  world  within  had  made, 
Ere  asking  the  world  without,  for  aid. 

Twas  easy  enough  the  tot  to  lift, 
And  cuddle  him  high  on  a  tree's  low  limb', 

And  ask  him  what  was  the  doleful  gift 
That  fate  in  its  fury  had  handed  him. 

And  quick  did  the  answer  come  to  me: 

"I — don'— know— where  that  I  live!"  sobbed  he. 

Twas  little  to  bribe  a  passing  boy 

To  steer  the  unconscious  truant  right, 
And  soon,  to  the  little  sinner's  joy, 

His  plump  legs  toddled  him  out  of  sight; 
But  still  he  stayed  by  my  side  and  cried — 

His  tremulous  lip  I  yet  could  see: 
And  still  did  his  words  in  my  heart  abide: 

"I  don't  know  where  that  I  live!"  said  he. 

The  steam's  white  river  sprung  up  afar, 
From  boiling  springs;  and  along  the  road 

Came  booming  the  jar  of  the  wheel-winged  car, 
With  bodies  and  souls  for  a  costly  load; 

The  world  a  minute,  with  smile  and  frown, 

Invaded  my  little  peaceful  town, 

Then  off! — still  spinning, with  scowls  and  smiles, 

The  fleecy  distance  to  threads  of  miles. 

105 


Drifted   In. 

As  I  joined  the  rushing  cavalcade, 

And  found  a  soft  seat,  cozy  and  wide, 
A  phantom-urchin  followed  and  stayed 

On  a  phantom-perch  by  my  friendly  side. 
And  through  the  distances  blue  and  gray, 
For  miles  an  hundred  we  clove  our  way ; 
And  still  with  that  look  of  childish  dread, 
"I — don' — know — where  that  I  live!"  he  said. 

I  looked  to  the  left:  a  man  sat  there, 
With  leaden  visage  and  silver  hair, 
His  back  to  the  goal  at  which  he  sped; 
And  carrying  words  in  his  face  that  said, 
"I  toil,  I  laugh,  I  grieve,  I  play: 
But  know  not  where  is  my  home  today." 

I  looked  to  the  right:  on  a  dreary  road, 
An  old  tramp  bearing  his  heavy  load — 
That  load,  himself  (the  idlest  eye 
Might  catch  the  story,  as  we  sped  by) : 
Said,  "Where  is  my  home? — I  do  not  know: 
I  lost  it  many  a  year  ago." 

1  looked  behind  me:  a  woman  fair, 

With  wealth  encompassed  from  foot  to  hair, 

With  silks  that  whispered  her  as  they  hung, 

And  gems  that  laughed  as  they  clung  and  swung 

Wherever  a  jewel  had  room  to  stay, 

Looked  puzzled  and  sad:  and  I  felt  her  say, 

As  sure  as  a  voice  the  truth  could  free : 

"The  home  where  I  live  is  no  home  to  me!" 

Two  lovers  were  whiling  the  time  away, 
With  nought  but  each  other:  no  need  had  day 

106 


The  Merry  Tennis  Girl. 

To  furnish  them  sun,  for,  blindly  wise, 
They  lived  in  the  light  of  each  other's  eyes. 
I  read,  in  their  murmured  words  of  cheer, 
"Home? — with  us  we  carry  it:  Home  is  here!" 

I  glanced  at  myself  within: — "When  I 
Have  done  what  my  brothers  call  'to  die', 
May  I  not  stand  in  the  dawn  or  gloam, 
And  sob  for  a  guide  to  take  me  home?" 


THE   MERRY   TENNIS   GIRL. 

Let  others  sound  the  praise  of  golf,  and  wander  up 

and  down 
O'er  rugged  field  and  jagged  ditch,  and  meadows 

green  or  brown; 
I  like  to  hear  the  many  tales  of  their  achievements 

grand, 
And  maybe  when  I  get  the  time,  I'll  also  take  a 

hand; 
But  'tisn't  the  game  that  always  sets  my  eager  blood 

awhirl ; 
And  so,  whatever  comes,  I'm  still  the  jolly  tennis 

girl— 
The  striking,  skipping,  jumping,  screaming,  merry 

tennis  girl! 

Let  others  wield  the  mallet  in  the  sober,  sad  croquet. 
And  bend  their  backs  and  twist  their  arms  the  good 

old-fashioned  way; 

It's  well  a  little  while  to  tread  the  mazes  of  the  arch, 
And  stoop  around  the  sodded  ground  with  slow  and 

jerky  march; 

107 


Drifted   In. 

But  nought  to  me  the  flag  of  glee  can  e'er  so  far 

unfurl 

As  just  to  take  my  racket  out,  and  be  a  tennis  girl — 
A  twisting,  romping,  dodging,  leaping,  merry  tennis 

girl! 

As  swift  as  thought  the  facile  ball  goes  leaping  to 

and  fro — 
There   is   no   time   for   partners   wise   to   tell   you 

"where  to  go"; 
And  "vantage  in"  and  "vantage  out"  are  easy  things 

to  change, 
And  long  disputes  in  mid  career  are  very  rare  and 

strange ; 
And  so,  as  long  as  I  a  ball  can  with  my  fingers 

twirl, 

I'm  going  to  keep  my  racket-hand,  and  be  a  tennis 
•      girl— 
A  patient,  watchful,  agile,  docile,  screaming  tenni? 

girl! 


THE  OAK-TREE'S  PROPHECY. 

When  first  the  maiden  Spring  tripped  out  of  sight, 
And  Summer  donned  her  ribbons  fresh  and  bright, 
And  smiled  along  her  emerald-shaded  leas, 
There  ran  a  thrill  though  all  the  forest  trees. 

A  vet'ran  oak — tall  prophet  of  the  wood, 
That  for  a  hundred  years  unscathed  had  stood, 

108 


The  Oak-Tree's  Prophecy. 

Had  mused  long  nights  o'er  forest  tragedies, 
Had  glared  reproach  at  weak  frivolities, 
Now  spoke  portentous  words — soon  whispered  round 
With  the  first  zephyr  that  the  forest  found. 

"Beware,  O  burghers  of  the  woodland  range," 
This  prophet  said:  "  eftsoon  there  comes  a  change. 
We  who  have  lived  so  blithely,  soon  must  roam 
In  forms  diverse!     This  sweetly-quiet  home, 
Where  we  have  prospered  many  a  changing  year, 
Must  now,  my  omens  tell  me,  disappear. 
This  city,  whence  our  commerce,  day  by  day, 
Has  through  the  air-ship-birds  pursued  its  way, 
And  by  our  winged  messengers  of  seeds, 
Filled  and  had  filled  a  score  of  diverse  needs, 
Must  soon  beneath  Destruction's  foot  be  cast, 
And  shrink  amid  the  wreckage  of  the  past." 

Then  spoke  a  lady  elm,  "O  father,  pray 

Decline  the  loan  of  trouble:  let  today 

Care  for  today — tomorrow  for  itself: 

Anticipation  is  a  tricksy  elf. 

The  noon  is  strong,  the  midnight  shades  are  sweet, 

The  twilight  treads  our  halls  with  gentle  feet, 

And  what  has  been  will  be  from  day  to  day; 

So  let  us  live,  and  love  our  years  away!" 

A  rough-clad  hickory,  on  each  opening  morn, 
Gazed  at  the  prophet,  with  a  sneer  of  scorn. 
"Now,  prophet,  let  me  prophesy!"  he  said: 
"Forests  will  live  long  after  men  are  dead. 
The  sun  will  rise  and  plough  the  skies,  and  sleep, 
The  rain  will  from  its  leaden  chariots  leap, 

109 


Drifted  In. 

And  we  still  live — the  same  blithe  forest  folk — 

In  spite  of  all  your  omens,  father  Oak. 

Fling  deep  your  roots  and  breakfast  well  and  fair; 

Spread  out  your  leaves  and  drink  the  morning  air. 

Be  'up  to  date',  and  join  us  with  your  best 

To  make  these  doleful  prophecies  a  jest! 

For  many  years  to  come,  when  time  is  long, 

Your  words  shall  form  the  theme  of  jocund  song." 

But  still  the  Oak  dispensed  his  warning  bold: 
"Prepare,  O  comrades  of  the  future  wold, 
For  sudden  change,  and  other  forms  of  life 
Amid  creation's  varied  peace  and  strife! 
Pray  that  you  next  be  flowers,  or  trees  once  more, 
If  you  would  live  as  you  have  lived  before ; 
Or  beg  that  you  may  bloom  as  spirit-trees, 
In  fairer  climes  and  happier  lands  than  these. 
Pray  for  fair  life  in  lives  that  soon  befall: 
For  earthly  death  is  hovering  o'er  us  all! 
The  sun  is  setting;  soon  shall  close  the  day: 
O  heedless  forest,  bow  your  heads  and  pray !" 

A  trembling  vine,  whose  leaves  had  scarcely  stirred, 
Caught  the  sad  summons,  and  believed  the  word, 
And  hung  her  graceful  head,  devout  and  still, 
To  these  unwelcome  prophecies  of  ill. 
A  willow  wept;  a  pine  did  not  forget 
Its  whispered  prayer;  the  birch  turned  paler  yet; 
But  the  great  forest  lived  and  laughed  its  ways 
Through  the  long  reaches  of  the  summer  days, 
And  cared  not  for  the  oak's  deep  solemn  word: 
A  thoughtful  warning  thoughtlessly  unheard. 

More  days  went  by,  and  still  the  forest  laughed, 
110 


The  Oak-Tree's  Prophecy. 

But  now  the  dew  with  eagerness  it  quaffed, 
And  said,  "In  thy  soft  flight  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
O  dew,  didst  see  thy  king,  the  blessed  rain?" 
But  burning  hours  and  days  and  nights  went  by, 
And  ne'er  a  storm-cloud  on  the  gleaming  sky. 

Now  did  the  tall  trees  thirst  with  fruitless  pain; 

Long  had  they  sucked  the  densely-rooted  plain; 

Now  did  their  messengers  magnetic  go 

To  stream  and  spring — if  they  that  way  might  flow; 

Now  did  they  envy  trees  of  meaner  rank, 

That  clung  along  the  river's  moistened  bank; 

Now  did  green  leaves  to  scrolls  of  parchment  wane; 

And  forests  prayed — not  for  their  sins — but  rain- 

And  still  the  dry  trees  hoped  a  better  fate; 
And  still  they,  waiting,  were  but  doomed  to  wait. 
The  air — sweet  breath  of  best-created  things, 
The  light,  God's  messenger  with  golden  wings, 
Both  hovered  round:  but  that  great  king  and  slave, 
Life's  comrade,  Water — came  not  near  to  save. 
The  prophet  Oak,  chief  of  the  tangled  grove, 
A  natural  stylite,  stood,  and,  patient,  strove 
With  his  own  fearful  thirst;  but  sore  oppressed, 
He  suffered  for  the  sufferings  of  the  rest, 
And  prayed  for  them :  how  much  availed  his  prayer, 
We  cannot  tell:  for  answers  are  God's  care. 

One  day,  a  huntsman  dropped  a  flame-tipped  seed 
Of  the  fire-plant,  when  it  had  filled  his  need, 
And  careless  went  his  way,  nor  mischief  knew. — 
The  yellow  kernel  slowly,  slowly  grew, 
Timid  in  new  life,  lest  it  might  be  put 

111 


Drifted   In. 

To  death  forever,  crushed  by  hand  or  foot; 
Then  growing  stronger,  its  dull  gleaming  eyes 
Grew  lurid  with  a  signal  of  surprise; 
With  new-discovered  power  it  sprang  upright, 
Straight  at  the  trees'  dry  throats,  and  clutched  them 
tight. 

Then  came  the  wild  wind  with  unnumbered  aids ; 
Then  glared  with  flame  the  forests'  deepest  shades; 
Then  a  volcano  not  of  lower  birth, 
Strewed  its  red  lava  o'er  the  shrinking  earth; 
Then  blossoms — such  as  seldom  trees  may  bear — 
Gleamed  from  a  million  branches  trembling  there; 
Then  a  great  moan  ran  all  the  forest  through; 
And  the  trees  found  their  prophet's  words  were  true. 


(THE  GHOST  OF  SABLE  ISLAND.) 

When  the  storm  flies,  with  its  black  wings  waving, 
And  dropping  their  quills  of  fire  in  the  surf  at 

Sable  Island, 

When  the  air  and  sea  and  the  black  shore  are  raving, 
And   the   cloud-mountains   shake   from   valley   to 

highland, 

When  the  petrel  a  duet  with  the  mad  gale  is  singing, 
When  all  the  drum-corps  of  the  sky  their  thunder- 
clubs  are  swinging, 

Or  every  wave  is  a  torch  by  Phosphor's  flame  ignited, 
And   even   the   sunless   sky  with   blazing   water   is 
lighted, 

Then  whirling  keys  of  billows  open  the  sand-hill 
doors, 

112 


The  Ghost  of  Sable  Island. 

And    out    of    their  gloomy  halls  come  skeletons 

bleached  and  gray, 

Of   men   and   women   who   voyaged    from   smiling, 
green-dressed  shores, 

Out  to  the  hurricane-country — straight  to  the  death- 
strewn  bay. 

Look! — in  the  sea  again,  this  good  ship  is  sailing! 
Not  with  banners  of  canvas,  and  flags  on  the  breezes 

trailing; 
But   one    by    one    its   timbers    are    into    the    foam 

alighting; 
The  angry  waves  each  other  with  wrecks  of  a  wreck 

are  righting. 

See! — on  the  drowning  beach,  a  ghost  comes  drearily 

walking — 

Pacing  on  sand  or  sea  full  many  a  desolate  rod: 
Eastward  a  moment  he  gazes;  now  the  white  lips 

are  talking! 

He  looks  straight  into  the  tempest  and  tells  his 
story  to  God. 

He  says,  "The  King  loved  my  wife,  in  an  unkingly 

fashion; 
What    was    our   heart-caress,    to    his    mad,    bestial 

passion? 
He  had  but  to  raise  his  finger,  and  I  was  a  felon  at 

best, 
And  she  a  creature  of  shame,  with  heart  torn  out  of 

her  breast. 

"He  threw  me  toward  this  sunset — a  dreary  island's 
slave — 

113 


Drifted  In. 

With  a  band  of  robbers  and  thieves,  into  this  wave- 
drenched  cell; 

Told  me,  if  I  must  love,  to  fall  in  love  with  the  grave ; 
Cast  me  out  of  Heaven,  into  a  wave-washed  hell. 
Her  spirit  flung  its  arms — its  white  arms — to  me; 
I  heard  her  crying  at  night,  above  the  sobs  of  the  sea. 
'Help!'  it  cried:  'help!'  but  what  could  that  mean, 
With    all    the    ocean's    width,    and    a    king's    lust, 
between  ? 

"I  knew  what  day  she  died;  for  her  pure  spirit  came, 

Womanly  every  gesture — sweet  and  angel-faced; 

It  loved  me  and  caressed  me — then  shrunk,  with  a 
look  of  shame, 

And  fled  toward  where  the  body  lay  ruined  and  dis 
graced. 

'Help!'  through  the  distance  she  cried:  'husband, 
avenge  my  wrong!' — 

But  what  could  I  do,  O  God!  my  ocean-fetters  were 
strong. 

What  can  bodies  do,  'gainst  earth,  and  air,  and  sky, 

And  enemies  in  triumph? — they  can  do  one  thing: 
they  can  die. 

"But  Death  was  not  a  release:  for  through  the  groan 
ing  water, 
A  peasant's  spirit  swam,  like  the  ghost  of  a  shark, 

to  me: 

'Curses  on  you,'  he  cried:  'you  slayer  of  my  daughter! 
Back,  you  hound,  to  your  kennel  by  the  edge  of  the 

treacherous  sea! 
You  an  avenger  of  virtue! — creep  to  your  slimy  hole! 

114 


The  Ghost  of  Sable  Island. 

The  King  killed  your  wife's  body — you  killed  my 

daughter's  soul! 

Woman  is  woman,  whether  the  kin  of  lords  or  churls; 
Crime  is  but  crime  in  Ghost-land — Death  has  nor 

dukes  nor  earls!' 

"Then  my  sins  weighed  like  iron — and  they  crushed 

me  back — 
Crushed  me  back,  O  God,  as  my  body  was  crushed 

in  life; 
And  the  King's  ghost — I  cannot,  I  dare  not,  follow 

its  track; 
I  cannot  harass  my  foe,  or  haste  to  comfort  my 

wife. 
And  her  soft  wail,  it  travels  through  sun  or  stormy 

weather; 
We  are  more  than  oceans  apart — O  bring  us,  once, 

God,  together! 
For  long  I  have  walked  this  black  beach,  and  heard 

the  ocean  tell 
That  Heaven  is  never  defrauded,  and  sin  itself  is 

Hell." 


(CHAIN-ROOTED  AND  FLEET-FOOTED.) 

River  and  tree-top  and  hill 

Fell  talking,  as  neighbors  oft  will. 

"O  would  you  could  see",  said  the  tree, 

"The  many  brave  things  that  I  see! 

Fond  lovers,  the  moments  beguiling; 

Fair  homes,  with  their  weeping  and  smiling; 

The  clouds  in  their  nearness  and  distance, 

115 


Drifted  In. 

The  stars  in  their  stately  existence; 
The  woodland,  the  grainland,  the  lea: 
O  would  you  might  see  what  /  see !" 

As  neighbors  with  neighbors  when  chaffing, 
The  hill  said,  in  tones  that  were  laughing, 
"Climb  on  my  broad  shoulder,  O  tree, 
And  see  the  great  things  that  /  see! 
Swift  commerce  the  vastnesses  riding, 
Great  cities  in  splendor  abiding, 
Steam  chariots  with  lanterns  ne'er  dimming, 
Iron  fish  through  the  ocean-waves  swimming: 

0  river,  rise  grandly  to  me, 

And  see  all  the  things  that  /  see!" 

The  river  its  whisp'ring  and  sighing 

Forgot,  for  a  moment,  replying: 

"O  tree-top  and  hill-top  chain-rooted, 

Tower  not  o'er  the  swift  many-footed! 

In  haunts  you  must  know  but  in  seeing — 

My  soul  has  had  knowledge  by  being; 

1  march,  with  my  ne'er  ceasing  motion, 
Through  earth  and  through  air  and  through  ocean, 
You  never  can  see  what  /  see, 

O  chain-footed  hill-top  and  tree!" 


(THE  PAUPER  SOLDIER.) 

(Suggested  by  a  Recent  Happening.) 
They  carried  the  man  to  a  soldier's  rest, 

The  drum  was  muffled,  the  fife  sang  low; 
A  blade  of  battle  was  on  his  breast, 

A  tattered  banner  that  knew  the  foe. 

116 


The  Ballad  of  Sir   Tom. 

There  sprang,  from  the  roof  of  his  earthy  tent, 
A  peal  of  thunder  and  flash  of  flame ; 

With  glory's  plaudits  the  air  was  rent ; 
(He  died  in  the  poorhouse,  all  the  same.) 

A  chaplain  stood  by  the  coffin-side, 

And  preached  a  story  of  long  ago; 
This  frozen  visage  would  flush  with  pride, 

If  just  but  the  dead  could  hear  and  know! 
Again  with  young  and  vigorous  hand, 

He  climbed  the  ladder  of  early  fame, 
And  pawned  a  life  for  his  native  land, 

(And  died  in  a  poorhouse,  all  the  same.) 

O  proud  Columbia!  well  'tis  said, 

If  ever  an  insult  you  may  meet, 
A  million  heroes,  victory-led, 

Will  lay  their  lives  at  your  very  feet! 
But  strip  the  flags  from  the  shining  domes, 

And  bow  your  beautiful  head  in  shame, 
If  men  who  fought  for  the  palace-homes 

Must  die  in  a  poorhouse  all  the  same ! 


(THE  BALLAD  OF  SIR  TOM.) 

Away!  away!  said  the  stout  Sir  Tom; 

Away  to  a  western  shore! 
There's  a  glittering  cup  I  would  gather  up, 

And  bring  to  my  land  once  more! 
And  bright  was  the  air,  and  the  wind  was  fair, 

And  whistled  a  merry  lay; 
And  soon  beside  a  western  tide, 

The  fluttering  Shamrock  lay. 

117 


Drifted  In. 

Alack!  alack;  said  the  stout  sea  men: 

Defeat  we  scarce  may  miss; 
Of  hull  or  of  spar  that  came  from  far, 

There  was  never  aught  like  this! 
And  the  air  grew  dark,  but  the  slender  bark 

Tnen  shone  with  a  glad  new  light; 
For  the  brave  Sir  Tom,  in  storm  or  calm, 

Had  soul  that  was  cheery  and  bright. 

Woe's  me !  woe's  me !  said  the  silver  cup, 

I  lived  in  the  westernland 
So  many  a  year,  'twere  sad  and  drear 

To  sail  to  another  strand ! 
Be  cheery  and  calm !  said  the  brave  Sir  Tom : 

They  fight  with  a  friendly  foe ; 
You  never  with  me  shall  cross  the  sea 

Unless  you  are  proud  to  go ! 

'Tissad!  'tis  sad!  said  the  weather-gods; 

For  surely  enough  we  know 
That  soon  as  a  gale  can  find  a  sail 

The  Briton  will  come  to  woe! 
And  seven  long  days  there  was  fog  and  haze 

Or  sun  in  a  summer  calm; 
"I  will  tarry  and  try  till  the  thick  snow  fly"5 

Said  merry  and  brave  Sir  Tom. 

Alack !  alack !  they  have  beaten  us  sore ! 

The  hardy  skipper  said : 
"Have  never  a  qualm!"  cried  brave  Sir  Tom: 

"But  look  to  the  days  ahead!" 
We  have  broken  our  mast;  our  day  is  past! 

The  hardy  skipper  said; 

118 


Fighting  For  Peace. 

We  are  yet  alive :  it  is  three  in  five ! 
The  cheerier  answer  sped. 

Alack !  alack !  we   are   beaten   again ! 

The  hardy  skipper  cried; 
The  Yankees  float  the  prettier  boat, 

Sir  Tom  with  a  wince  replied. 
Now  honor  you  Columbia's  crew, 

My  merry  generous  tars ; 
We  have  come  once  more  from  English  shore, 

To  honor  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Away !  away !  said  the  brave  Sir  Tom, 

And  crossed  the  billowing  sea; 
He  carried  the  wile  of  his  winning  smile, 

And  never  a  cup  had  he. 
But  all  of  the  throng  that  lingered  long, 

To  see  the  guest  depart, 
Said  never  defeat  had  chance  to  meet 

A  braver  and  truer  heart ! 


(FIGHTING  FOR  PEACE.) 

By  the  rough  edge  of  our  nation, 

Where  the  shore  fights  with  the  waves, 
Foreigners  lofty  of  station 

Fought  'gainst  the  conquest  of  graves. 
Breezes   were    sparring    around    them, 
Fierce-beating  sunbeams  had  found  them, 
Agents  of  constant  aggression 
Strove  for  increase  of  possession: 
Seabirds  the  snow-clouds  surviving, 
'Gainst  the.  hot  tempests  were  striving, 

U9 


Drifted   In. 

Creatures  our  free  air  would  smother, 
Warred  in  the  waves  with  each  other, 
Even  the  pines  in  the  distance, 
Strove   'gainst   each   other's   existence, 
Even  the  flowerets'  sweet  growing 
Campaigns  of  conquest  was  knowing. — 
Not  from  this  world  are  we  learning 

Lessons  of  love  and  of  peace: 
Nature,  the  quietudes  spurning, 

Never  from  warfare  may  cease. 

When  the  iced  rivulet  hardens, 

Growing  too  splendid  to  sing, 
When  in  the  trees'  lofty  gardens 

Camp  the  brave  blossoms  of  Spring, 
When  dimpled  zephyrs  are  creeping 
Over  our  waking  or  sleeping, 
When  in  its  cyclonic  rushing 
God's  air  God's  children  is  crushing, 
When  from  the  harvest-sun  glowing, 
Life-streams  and  death-streams  are  flowing, 
When,  the  black  thunder-clouds  brightening, 
Dart  the  gold  spears  of  the  lightning, 
All  is  a  war,  to  our  senses!— 

Even  Love's  delicate  thrill 
Has  its  attacks  and  defences, 

Either  to  cherish  or  kill. 

When,  the  east  vestibule  lighting, 
Swings  the  sun's  lantern  on  high, 

Rays  with  the  darkness  are  fighting, 
On  the  blue  fields  of  the  sky. 

As  through  the  measureless  arches, 

In  their  ne'er  bivouacked  marches 

120 


Fighting  For  Peace. 

Pass  'mid  rich  Ether's  possessions 
Stars  in  ne'er-halting  processions, 
In  each  bright  mile  of  their  courses, 
Forces  are  struggling  with  forces, 
Thus  the  safe  balances  keeping, 
While  through  the  universe  sweeping. 
Not  from  the  stars  we  are  learning 

Lessons  of  peace  for  our  souls: 
Only  by  strifes  in  their  turning, 

Order  can  keep  its  controls. 

On  the  rough  edge  of  our  nation, 

Long  did  the  foreigners  dwell, 
Waiting  for  heaven's  ministration, 

Or  the  redoubling  of  hell. 
Whence  came  their  peaceful  desiring- 
What  their  decision  inspiring?— 
Not  from  this  world,  or  from  near  it, 
Grows  the  beneficent  spirit: 
E'en  as  this  war  was  arrested, 
Earthquakes  in  fury  protested! 
Not  from  the  world's  savage  teaching, 

Peace  has  the  power  to  arise; 
You  who  for  that  are  beseeching, 

Look  to  the  realms  of  the  skies! 

See  there  the  death  of  confusion; 

See  the  true  order  of  life; 
Joy  on  no  joy  claims  intrusion — 

Peace  is  not  purchased  with  strife. 
Gold  is  not  hoarded  and  treasured— 
Boundary-lines  are  unmeasured; 
Never  in  words — but  suggestion — 
Rises  the  swift-answered  question — 

121 


Drifted  In. 

Not  "Who  with  man  shall  be  greater?" 
But  "Who  with  man's  blest  Creator?" 
Thence,  where  all  love  has  beginning, 

Thence,  where  all  order  finds  birth, 
Must,  'mid  our  strifes  and  our  sinning, 

Come  all  the  peace  of  the  earth. 


(THE  SACK  OF  FLOUR.) 

Guilty,  Judge,  and  I  own  the  crime — 
I  slipped  away  with  a  sack  of  flour: 
They  nabbed  me  just  in  the  nick  of  time — 

I'd  have  had  it  home  in  half  an  hour. 
Only,  the  constable  on  the  hill, 
Knew  that  I  must  have  jumped  the  bill; 
Knew  as  well  as  he  could,  that  I 
Hadn't  the  money  with  which  to  buy. 

"Larceny"?  that's  the  proper  word; 

There's  never  a  crime  but  Law  can  name. 
Only,  I  wonder  if  Law  has  heard 

That  any  one  but  the  thief's  to  blame? 
Say:  did  the  constable  on  the  hill 
Tell  you  about  the  closed-up  mill  ? 
Tell  you  of  men  that  must  beg  or  steal, 
To  give  their  babies  and  wives  a  meal? 

Yes,  I'have  begged — and  I'll  tell  you  how: 
I  walked  the  roads  and  the  fields  and  lanes, 

And  asked  for  work  with  a  pleading  brow, 
And  came  back  empty  for  all  my  pains! 

122 


The  Sack  of  Flour. 

Say:  did  the  constable  on  the  hill 
Tell  you  the  wheels  of  trade  were  still? 
Tell  you,  when  work  was  dull  or  dead, 
The  wife  and  the  child  might  go  unfed? 

Guilty,  Judge — let  the  law  be  paid; 

But  if  you  had  children  four  or  five, 
As  pretty  as  God  has  ever  made, 

And  lacked  the  food  to  keep  them  alive, 
Lacked  the  method  but  not  the  will, 
Their  cries  of  hunger  to  stop  and  still — 
And  then  saw  oceans  of  food  in  view — 
For  God's  sake  tell  me,  what  would  you  do? 

Say !  if  you  had  a  wife  whose  heart 

Had  fed  your  own  for  a  score  of  years, 
And  never  a  moment  walked  apart 

From  all  of  your  griefs  and  hopes  and  fears, 
And  now  in  that  faithful  bosom  had  grown 
A  little  life  that  was  part  your  own, 
And  hunger  harrowed  them  through  and  through, 
For  God's  sake  tell  me,  what  would  you  do? 

Dollars  by  thousands  stacked  away — 

Harvests  rotting  in  barn  and  shed — 
Silks  and  ribbons  and  fine  display— 

And  children  crying  for  lack  of  bread! 
Wealth  and  Famine  are  hand  in  hand, 
Making  the  tour  of  a  heart-sick  land; 
Half  of  the  country's  future  weal 
Crushed  by  the  Present's  selfish  heel ! 

Guilty,  Judge — and  I  own  the  crime; 
put  me  in  prison  without  delay— » 

123 


Drifted  In. 

Only — please  work  me  double  time, 
And  send  my  family  half  the  pay! 
And  tell  my  loved  ones,  if  ever  they  ask 
That  I  was  working  my  gloomy  task, 
Not  for  pleasure  or  money  or  gem- 
But  just  for  the  love  that  I  had  for  them. 


While  these  recitals  were  "on  the  hooks", 
There  would,  of  course,  in  the  varied  nooks 
That  different  parts  of  a  train  afford, 
Be  certain  ones  of  our  race  aboard, 
Who  did  not  care  if  the  world  be  righted 
Or  wronged,  by  rhythmical  lines  recited. 
And  they  were  dealing,  one  might  suppose, 
In  some  original  bits  of  prose, 
Discussions  of  stocks  and  politics, 
And  human  nature's  unnumbered  tricks, 
Of  church  and  state:  and  a  deacon  old 
This  tale  to  some  listening  sinners  told: 


(FARMER  STEBBINS  AT  THE  RUMMAGE-SALE.; 

Our  members  of  the  Union  Church  felt  money's  con 
stant  needs, 

To  hold  their  reg'lar  services,  an'  voice  their  mingled 
creeds ; 

An*  so,  as  every  other  source  of  earnin'  had  been 
tried, 

Till  all  the  fat  was  squeezed  from  them,  with  some 
still  unsupplied, 

124 


Farmer  Stebbins  at  the  Rummage-Sale. 

A  sister  of  the  church,  or  some  enthusiastic  male, 
Suggested  that  we  search  our  homes,  an'  have  a 
"rummage-sale." 

An*  so  my  wife  spooked  round  the  house,  with  steps 

that  seldom  ceased, 
A-findin'  things  we  didn't  want,  or  thought  we  didn't, 

at  least; 
Until  the  cellar  seemed  a  cave  with  Poverty  struck 

dumb, 
An'  all  the  garret  wondered  if  the  judgment  day  had 

come. 
An'  e'en  the  other  rooms  was  scant  an'  newly  full  of 

space; 
But  "Never  mind,"  she  says:  "we'll  buy  some  more 

things  in  their  place." 

An'  so  they  worked  an'  fussed  an'  tugged,  a  busy 

week  or  more, 
An*  changed  the  sacred  vestry  to  a  small  department 

store : 
An'  even  Thursday-meetin'-night  we  had  to  sit  an' 

pray 
'Mongst  all  the  various  goods  an'  ills  that  set  there 

in  the  way; 
An'  as  twixt  prayers  my  eye  went  'round  on  many 

silent  hunts, 
It  seemed  like  visiting  in  all  the  neighbors'  homes  at 

once. 

Twas  worth  a  dime  or  two  to  see — though  very  hard 

to  tell:— 
I  didn't  suppose  my  townsmen  had  so  many  things  to 

sell! 

125 


Drifted   In. 

Old  duds  that  hadn't  seen  the  light  for  years,  was 

hustled  out, 
An'  looked  like  they  was  wond'rin'  what  the  show 

was  all  about; 
An*  Rip  Van  Winkle,  when  he  woke  with  wildness  in 

his  eyes, 
Could  not  hev  carried  in  his  face  more   genuine 

straight  surprise. 

An'  when  the  day  appeared  at  last  these  hard-found 

things  to  sell, 
The  people  wildly  flocked  to  buy,  an'  done  their  duty 

well: 

An'  hotcakes  on  a  winter  day,  in  maple-syrup  style, 
Was  nothin'  to  the  way  them  things  went  off,  for 

quite  a  while. 
At  least,  that's  what  my  good  old  wife  reported  unto 

me, 
Though,  rummagin'  for  livelihood,  I  couldn't  go  an' 

see; 

Till  Saturday  at  eve  I  went,  an'  viewed  the  land 
scape  o'er, 

Includin'  some  addition'l  things  I  hadn't  seen  before : 

An'  bought  some  articles  to  speed  the  good  an'  true 
an'  right, 

An'  took  'em  back  unto  my  wife,  who  stayed  at  home 
that  night; 

An'  laid  my  purchases  in  shape  for  her  to  feel  an' 
see: 

An'  then  she  looked  the  things  all  through,  an'  then 
she  looked  at  me. 

"My  goodness  what  a  lot  of  truck  they've  put  on 
you!"  she  said: 

126 


Farmer  Stebbins  at  the  Rummage-Sale. 

"What  do  I  want  of  these  old  shams  from  Mrs. 
Brady's  bed? 

Who's  goin'  to  wear  a  moth-eat  shawl,  an'  two  last- 
winter  hats — 

What  can  I  do  with  this  old  rug,  half  gnawed  in  two 
by  rats? 

An'  here's  a  book  with  which  the  Higgins  babes  have 
boon  amused, 

An'  done  some  teethin'  while  the  same  they  thought 
fully  perused; 

"An'   these  here   laces,   ribbons,   gloves,   an'   other 

things  to  wear, 
Would  make  asylums  crazy  twice,  if  I  should  take 

'em  there: 
Them  curtain-poles  might  do  for  barns,  but  in  a  home 

are  lost— 
I  wouldn't  keep  'em  in  the  house  for  ten  times  what 

they  cost. 
An'  this  here  crock'ry— ef  you'd  know  how  eatin'  on 

it  feels, 
Just  go  an'  see  the  folks  it  left,  when  they  are  at 

their  meals. 

"An'  honest  silver'd  be  ashamed  of  such  half-plated 

ware, 
An'  any  one  you  want  to  kill,  can  take  this  crippled 

chair; 
An'  here's  a  candle-stick — of  course  the  Joneses  will 

not  cease 
To^say  it's  of  a  classic  build — no  doubt  it  came  from 

grease; 
An'    this    red    gown— I've    seen    it   years    on    Julia 

Doozler  fade: 

127 


Drifted  In. 

Perhaps  I'll  wear  the  measly  clothes  cast  off  by  that 
old  maid! 

"An'    these    here    pants — my    goodness    sakes!     I 

thought  it — now  I  know- 
Was  bought  new  by  yourself,  old  man,  five  years  or 

less  ago! 
I  give  'em  to  'em,  rather  than  to  patch  'em  where 

they  lack — 
An'  now  them  minxes  over  there  coaxed  you  to  buy 

them  back! 
An'  I  believe",  she  says,  with  force  an'  emphasis  to 

spare, 

"They'd  sold  you  back  your  house  an'  farm,  if  I'd 
have  took  'em  there!" 

Then,  tryin'  hard  to  glean  from  off  my  blunder  what 
'twas  worth, 

I  mused,  'This  rummage-craze  is  like  most  every 
thing  on  earth: 

It  has  delusions,  mixed  with  good — it  makes  folks 
buy  an'  give 

That  wouldn't,  if  'twasn't  for  novelty:  an'  helps  the 
causes  live. 

But  what  I  give  the  Lord  henceforth,  I'll  give  it  to 
Him  straight 

An'  not  tramp  round  a  hundred  miles  to  walk  through 
my  own  gate." 


There  was  in  our  varied  company  one 
Who  knew  great  Lincoln  before  the  sun 
Of  fame  had  gilded  his  manhood-name, 
And  the  whole  path  up  which  he  came. 

128 


'Twixt  Wave  and  Star. 

(Things  common  now  and  familiar-nigh, 
The  world  will  be  worshiping,  bye-and-bye!) 

'Twas  nothing  more  than  appropriate 

This  friend  of  the  old  time  should  relate 

Some  stories  of  one  whose  boyhood-strife 

With  fortune,  in  humble,  toilsome  life, 

Had  not  through  the  earth  or  wave  foretold 

That  he  would  a  nation's  ruling  hold. 

And  telling  of  Doric  hardships  he 

By  fate  beneficent  came  to  see, 

Twas  thought  that  it  might  not  prove  unmeet, 

The  following  stanzas  to  repeat: 


('TWIXT  WAVE  AND  STAR.) 

The  river  to  the  gulf  went  floating  down, 
The  night  fell  fast  along  the  shores  of  brown, 
The  lights  came  twinkling  from  a  distant  town, 

And  dipped  their  slender  shadows  in  the  wave; 
Upon  the  laden  deck,  in  humble  guise, 
There  crouched  a  lad  with  smiling,  thoughtful  eyes, 
A  rugged  face  half  merry  and  half  wise, 

A  manner  that  was  timid  and  yet  brave. 

Afar  into  the  regions  of  the  dark, 

Was  heard  the  hidden  watchdog's  sullen  bark, 

And  now  and  then  the  voyager  could  mark 

Perhaps  a  muffled  cry  of  pain  or  joy; 
And  never  yet  had  Loneliness,  perchance, 
Espied  a  pathway  better  to  advance, 
And  throw  her  ofttime  cold  and  dreary  glance 

Into  the  nature  of  a  homesick  boy. 

129 


Drifted  In. 

'Twixt  speeding  wavelets  and  unmoving  sky, 

The  summer  clouds  went  journeying  free  and  high, 

But  one  the  boyish  traveler  could  descry, 

Was  black,  as  if  a  thunder-storm  were  near; 
There  came  a  steamer  up  the  wounded  stream, 
With  brazen  voice,  and  headlights  all  agleam, 
And  merry  passengers,  that  did  not  dream 

The  nation's  future  hope  was  hov'ring  here. 

The  moon  rose  from  a  forest,  full  and  brave, 
Unto  the  land  a  smile  of  beauty  gave, 
And  threw  her  silver  in  the  leaden  wave, 

But  bore  somewhat  of  sadness  in  her  smile; 
A  thousand  stars  came  marching  into  view, 
And  watched  the  voyager,  as  if  they  knew 
Their  silent  prophesies  would  soon  come  true, 

That  were  but  jests,  if  voiced  on  earth  the  while. 

As  toward  the  river's  birthplace  and  its  grave, 
The  rugged  flatboat  cleaved  the  whispering  wave, 
What  were  the  visions  to  the  boy  they  gave? — 

We  do  not  know:  his  lips  have  never  told. 
Were  great  assemblies  cheering  at  his  word, 
In  sounds  prophetic  by  his  senses  heard? 
Or  into  thoughtful  silence  were  they  stirred — 

His  silver  speech  transmuted  into  gold? 

As  lights  and  shadows  with  each  other  grew, 
As  his  rough  shallop  clove  the  waters  through, 
Did  marble  halls  arise  unto  his  view — 

And  he  their  most  supremely-honored  guest? 
Along  the  lonely  river's  rippling  flow, 
Did  messages  on  wings  of  lightning  go, 

130 


afm 


I 


R 


'THE  NATION'S  FUTURE  HOPE  WAS  HOVERING  HERE' 


News  Prom  Without. 

And  glittering  armies  hurry  to  and  fro, 
And  he  by  all  the  world  their  chief  confessed? 

Did  star-flecked  banners  flash  aloft  his  name, 
Did  trumpets  many-voiced  his  rank  proclaim, 
Did  cannon  greet  him  with  their  tongues  of  flame? — 

We  do  not  know:  the  river  cannot  tell. 
Did  nations  glorify  his  care-worn  face, 
And  in  the  halls  of  honor  give  him  place, 
As  one  who  tore  the  shackles  from  a  race? — 

The  shore's  long  walls  have  kept  their  secret  well. 

Did  all  the  world  his  honest  shrewdness  prize? 

Did  monuments  unto  his  name  arise, 

As  claiming  homage  from  the  very  skies? — 

The  mind  hath  oft  its  memories  concealed. 
Did  he,  to  whom  no  sorrow  called  in  vain, 
Who  pitied  e'en  the  bitterest  foeman  slain, 
Feel  now  the  bullet  crashing  through  his  brain? 

We  cannot  know,  till  all  things  are  revealed. 


Frowned  on  us  the  storm's  white  face  once  more, 

With  sterner  menaces  than  before; 

(Thus — to  his  sorrow — a  punster  sinned: 

"It's  merely  getting  its  second  wind!") 

But  one  great  comfort  was  strewn  about: 

We  had  good  news  from  the  world  without ! 

A  servant  of  the  electric  spark, 

(Who  modestly  thus  far  in  the  dark 

Had  lurked)  in  the  oratory's  pause, 

Came  to  the  front  in  immense  applause. 

Genius  in  overalls  was  he: 

131 


Drifted  In. 

A  company's  trusted  employe. 

Some  Morse  machinery  he  was  transferring 

From  office  to  office  up  the  line; 
And  in  the  snow  he  had  delved  his  way, 
Amid  the  chill  of  that  frigid  day, 
And  a  wire  dug  out,  buzzing  and  purring, 

And  captured,  with  theft  in  his  design. 
(A  theft  of  tidings  was  his  brave  scheme.) 
Soon  through  this  channel  began  to  stream 
Some  scraps  of  news  and  some  news  of  scraps 
(A  justifiable  word,  perhaps, 
Since  slang  is  ever  inclined  to  creep 
In  languages,  lest  they  go  to  sleep, 
And  words  tabooed  by  the  purist-sages, 
Swarm  into  the  dictionary's  pages 
And  try — succeeding  better  or  worse, 
With  older  residents  to  converse, 
Which  put  on  airs — although  they  may 
Have  entered,  at  first,  the  selfsame  way) . 

So  learned  we  what  in  the  outside  world 
Had  happened,  since  we  were  last  night  whirled 
Alive — unharmed — to  a  deathless  grave 
(Minds  always,  that  had  prophetic  touch, 
Have  known  and  said  that  all  graves  were  such) ! 
We  heard  that  efforts  prolonged  and  brave, 
Were  being  employed  to  bring  again 
Our  hermit-throng  to  the  hearts  of  men; 
We  heard  that  the  big  world  had  progressed, 
Though  of  our  assistance  dispossessed; 
That  people  had  lived  and  thrived  the  same 
As  ever  before :  and  soon  there  came 
Gay  greetings  from  cronies  up  and  down, 

132 


Snow-Wonders. 

Addressed  to  our  "newly  settled  town", 

With  messages  both  to  cheer  and  chafe, 

That  hoped  we  were  "happy  as  well  as  safe." 

They  wired  us  of  coming  banquet-fare, 

And  hoped  we  would  hurry  and  get  our  share; 

Smart  jests  that  were  new  or  of  long  ago, 

Were  tickingl;  banded  to  and  fro, 

And  though  the  weather  was  surely  not, 

The  exhumed  wire  was  each  moment  "hot." 

And  when,  this  novelty  past,  the  day 

Grew  weary  again  as  it  wore  away, 

An  old  microscopist  in  our  band, 

Drew  forth  from  his  baggage,  with  cautious  hand, 

An  instrument  which,  as  sight  unbars, 

Turns  atoms  to  giants,  and  motes  to  stars. 

He  made  us  clearly  to  understand, 

We  dwelt  that  day  in  a  wonderland: 

His  strange  exhibits  gave  us  to  know 

The  palaced  crystals  of  ice  and  snow: 

How  some  of  these  children  of  stress  and  storm 

Were  gems  of  exact  and  dainty  form; 

How  flowers  that  press — not  wholly  in  vain — 

Their  fair  cold  cheeks  to  the  window-pane, 

Have  brothers  and  sisters  that  repose 

In  wide-spread  gardens  of  drifting  snows; 

(Not  in  the  midst  of  the  summer  sheen 

Are  all  of  the  flowers  that  "blush  unseen"!) 

We  learned  from  him  that  we  dwelt  that  day 

Not  in  a  prison  of  frozen  clay; 

Not  in  long  jail-cells  sojourning, 

But  one  of  the  palaces  of  the  King! 

Yet  as  night  gathered  around  us  there, 
133 


Drifted   In. 

Swept  through  it  a  breath  of  torrid  air; 
And  we  were  reminded  that  this  storm 

Of  frozen  rain  that  had  locked  us  in, 
Was  the  fag  end  of  the  winter's  form, 

And  Spring  was  eager  the  field  to  win. 
Came  ominous  rumbles  more  heavy  than  loud. 
From  many  a  far-off  thunder-cloud; 
Then  sprites  of  the  weather  seemed  to  brood 
Above  and  around  us,  in  melting  mood. 
The  storms  from  the  valleys,  hills,  and  plains 
Were  now  refashioned  to  drenching  rains; 
The  sky  turned  into  an  ocean  dark; 
Our  railroad-refuge  was  now  an  ark — 
Not  tossing  amid  the  floating  wrack, 
But  stolidly  standing  upon  its  track. 
'Twas  "lucky'*  for  us  that  we  met  that  shock, 
With  road  and  roadbed  as  firm  as  rock! 
For  swiftly  the  snow  where  we  were  pent, 
Was  turned  to  the  fourth-named  element. 
Came  through  the  air,  in  its  fiercest  form, 
Our  curio-winter  thunder-storm; 
This  weeping,  moaning  brunette  of  nights 
Wore  jewels  of  weird  electric  lights, 
That  dug  themselves  from  the  regions  high — 
Great  diamond-fields  of  the  boundless  sky; 
The  plateaux  of  snow  that  had  amassed 
Were  turned  to  rivers  swift  sweeping  past; 
Which  need  not  stop,  we  were  made  to  know, 
But  leaped  a  precipice  miles  below, 
Invaded  a  gorge,  and,  fiercely  free, 
Set  off  for  home,  the  unbounded  sea 
('Twas  feared,  if  our  moorings  proved  not  strong, 
We  might  have  offers  to  go  along). 

134 


Song  of  Danger. 

And  they  were  lighted  along  their  path, 
With  watchfires  kindled  by  Nature's  wrath. 

In  hot  pursuit  of  the  flying  flame, 
Now  cannon-peals  of  the  thunder  came; 
And  in  the  midst  of  the  crash  of  sound, 
Were  screams  from  women  clustering  round, 
And  even  men,  with  their  teeth  close-set, 
Were  shivering  at  what  might  come  yet, 
And  nerves  were  shaken  that  would  not  yield 
If  tested  upon  the  battle-field. 
The  old  sea-captain,  astir  once  more, 
Seemed  happier  than  all  day  before; 
And  certain  tidings  his  manner  lent, 
That  now  he  was  in  his  element. 
Our  hardihood  through  the  storm  he  steered; 
He  comforted  those  who  weakly  feared; 
He  sang  this  song — which  a  contrast  bore 
To  his  grim  story  some  hours  before: 

(SONG  OF   DANGER.) 

Trust  in  Him,  trust  in  Him,  you  who  are  dreading 

pain : 
God  has  his  roads  through  troubles,  with  none  of  them 

J,      built  in  vain ; 

Never  a  hope  of  comfort,  but  brings  us  a  future  gain, 
Never  a  living  creature  but  rises  from  its  fall : 
Trust  in  the  Ruler  of  All. 

Trust  in  Him,  trust  in  Him — you  who  are  dreading 

to  go 
Out  in  the  world  of  mystery,  where  the  dark  waters 

flow; 

135, 


Drifted  In. 

All  will  appear  so  simple,  you'll  wonder  you  did  not 

know! 

Nothing  within  our  universe  our  universe  need  appal : 
Trust  the  Protector  of  All. 

Trust  in  Him,  trust  in  Him — you  who  are  heavy  of 
heart 

Lest  the  dear  ones  you  are  loving  may  feel  bereave 
ment's  smart: 

Souls  that  adore  each  other  not  long  are  kept  apart. 

Wherever  in  the  Universe,  Love  can  hear  Love's  call : 

Trust  in  the  Lover  of  All. 

Trust  in  Him,  trust  in  Him,  whether  on  land  or  sea, 
Whether  on  mountain  or  river,  always  the  same  is  He : 
Sorrows  He  will  not  give  us  that  joy  from  us  cannot 

free; 

Thinner  betwixt  the  two  worlds  grows  ever  the  cloud- 
built  wall : 
He  is  the  Helper  of  All. 


The  morning  broke  with  a  cloudless  sun, 
And  all  was  merry  to  our  glad  sight : 

The  mountains  of  drifted  snow  had  gone 
Enough  to  release  us  from  our  plight. 

There  came  two  rescuing  engines  near : 

The  storm  was  over — the  track  was  clear! 


136 


AFTER-WORDS. 


AFTER-WORDS. 


WHY  PREFACES  ARE  SKIPPED. 

Often,  the  "prefaces"  and  "forewords"  are  well  enough 
written,  but  not  so  often  read  as  they  might  be,  if  more 
interesting.  The  reason  that  they  do  not  immediately  en 
gage  the  attention  of  the  reader  is,  perhaps,  that  interest 
in  the  subject  of  the  book  has  not  yet  been  sufficiently 
aroused  in  his  mind. 

When  the  doing  of  a  thing  has  been  resolved  upon, 
there  are  two  ways  of  accomplishing  it:  to  explain  and 
then  do  it,  or  to  do  and  then  explain  it.  The  latter 
seems  to  me  generally  the  better  of  the  two:  and  is 
adopted  in  this  case. 

A  few  remarks  explanatory  of  preceding  lines,  may 
not  be  unacceptable  to  the  reader. 


TITLE  AND  PLAN  OF  BOOK. 

In  the  course  of  a  number  of  weeks'  travel  each  year 
up  and  down  the  country,  in  the  intervals  of  other  work, 
lecturing,  reading,  "orating,"  etc.,  I  have  several  times 
been  "drifted  in"  on  trains;  and  have  in  such  cases  seen 
some  very  instructive  and  diverting  phases  of  human 
nature.  The  environment  of  railroad-life  has  a  character 
of  its  own,  full  of  interest:  for  The  World  Away  from 
Home  is  in  many  respects  different  from  what  it  is  within 
the  precincts  of  its  local  bounds.  Especially  is  this  the 
case  under  abnormal  conditions,  as  of  a  train  being 
"stalled"  for  a  few  hours,  or,  as  sometimes  occurs,  for 
days  at  a  time. 

137 


Drifted   In. 

CHURCH -BELLS  NEAR  STATIONS. 
On  page  10  occurs  the  line 

"That  bell  was  calling  the  world  to  prayer." 

Those  who  in  one  of  the  short  intervals  between  trips  at 
some  small  village,  have  heard  during  the  sudden  stillness 
a  church-bell  in  the  town  calling  people  to  prayer,  will 
understand  these  lines.  It  rouses  such  a  new  train  of 
thought — so  entirely  different  from  what  they  have  proba 
bly  just  been  entertaining!  and  has  made  more  than  one 
traveler  wish  he  had  time  to  alight  and  attend  the  simple 
and  perhaps  elevating  service. 

On  this  particular  occasion  the  function  is  not  to  be 
understood  as  having  been  a  Sunday  evening  one:  but 
presumably,  one  of  the  week-day  evening  prayer-meetings. 

STRIPES  ON  CONDUCTORS'  ARMS. 

Line  4  on  page  13  is  explained  by  the  fact,  known  to 
some,  perhaps  unknown  to  more,  that  certain  railroad- 
companies  bestow  golden  stripes  on  the  coat-sleeve  of 
conductors,  one  for  every  five  years  of  continuous  ser 
vice.  Some  of  these  faithful  employes  are  justly  proud 
of  the  display. 

AUTOMOBILES — PRO  AND  CON. 

On  page  14  commences  a  trio  of  poems  involving  that 
great  vehicular  feature  of  travel — the  automobile.  This 
machine  certainly  marks  a  new  era  in  the  world's  life  and 
progress,  and  one  that  must  produce  a  vast  difference  in 
the  condition  of  things — both  for  weal  and  for  woe.  It  will 
make  even  war  a  vastly  different  affair:  for  the  heavy 
cannon  and  the  machine-guns  will  now  be  hurried  from 
place  to  place,  not  by  the  aid  of  horses,  but  by  steam, 
gasoline,  or  electricity. 

The  Biblical  prophecy  that  the  swift  chariots  shall  "rage 
in  the  streets",  is  now  literally  fulfilled,  without  the 
help  of  railroad-trains.  Mother  Shipton's  statement  that 
"Carriages  without  horses  shall  go,  and  accidents  fill  the 

138 


After-Words. 

world  with  woe,"  is  now  most  literally  and  vividly  con 
firmed  by  the  "horseless  wagon." 

In  the  three  automobile-poems  here  introduced,  both 
phases  of  the  subject — the  pleasant  and  the  unpleasant — 
are  brought  to  the  fore.  There  are  those  who  know  how 
to  make  of  this  most  useful  machine  a  blessing,  and, 
naturally,  those  who  can  turn  it  into  a  curse — both  to 
themselves  and  others. 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  GRAIN-GATHERING. 

On  page  24,  three  phases  of  harvesting  are  depicted. 
That  connected  with  the  sickle,  maybe  within  the  memory 
of  some;  and  the  crooked  little  saw-toothed  blade,  no 
doubt  used  yet,  in  some  isolated  cases.  The  second  phase 
was  the  superannuated  but  often-used  "cradle" — a  scythe 
with  several  long  tapering  fingers  to  catch  the  grain- 
stalks  as  they  fell.  The  implement  was  named,  no 
doubt,  from  the  rocking,  cradle-like  motion  of  harvesters, 
as  they  went  swinging  and  crashing  through  the  standing 
grain — often  several  of  them  together,  or,  rather,  in  slightly 
diverging  Indian  file. 

The  third  and  latest  method  of  harvesting  grain  with 
machinery,  is  too  familiar  to  the  present  generation,  to 
need  description  here. 


COLLEGE  HAZING. 

On  page  33  some  college  reminiscences  are  fused  into  a 
story — founded,  not  only  "upon  fact,"  but  upon  any 
amount  of  facts.  Those  who  have  had  the  joyful  and 
joyless  experiences  of  a  college  course,  would  not  trade 
its  memories  for  a  good  large  fortune. 

Dear,  delightful  old  college  days! — in  which  some  of 
the  most  godly  of  students  did  some  of  the  most  ungodly 
of  things.  I  know  more  than  one  exemplary  and  irre 
proachable  clergyman,  who,  when  a  theological  student, 
would  go  a  long  way  to  despoil  a  melon-patch  or  lighten 
the  clustering  burdens  of  a  grape- vineyard,  or  transport 
something  incongruous  to  places  inconsistent  with  con 
ventional  ideas  of  order.  These  "stunts",  as  they  might 

139 


Drifted  In. 

be  called  now,  were  done  with  a  great  big  boyish  innocence 
that  really  wished  to  harm  nobody,  but  enjoyed  the  ludi 
crous  discomposure  of  those  who  were  thus  "hazed",  with 
a  keenness  not  to  be  resisted. 

Hazing,  like  every  thing  else,  can  be   overdone,   and 
fool-done:  and  it  is  refreshing  to  see  the  hazer  hazed. 


THE  LOWER  BERTH. 

Page  41  will  bring  to  many  railroad-travellers  the 
pleasure  of  lying  in  the  lower  berth  of  a  sleeping-car,  and 
with  the  window-curtain  raised,  sinking  gradually  to  sleep 
amid  the  glories  of  a  moonlit  landscape,  or  a  star-flecked 
sky  with  all  its  diversified  grandeurs. 

Whoever  has  not  studied  at  least  the  spectacular  parts 
of  astronomy,  has  thus  far  missed  one  of  the  most  ac 
cessible  and  fascinating  of  pleasures.  Those  grand  orbs — 
older  than  history,  and  yet  ever  new — have  in  them  a 
joy  for  their  students  and  followers,  that  never  grows 
less.  Especially  are  the  constellation  of  Orion,  and  the 
regions  round  about  it,  full  of  the  most  picturesque 
as  well  as  historical  interest. 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINERS. 

The  sea-captain  mentioned  on  page  48,  who  seems 
to  have  been  taking  a  land-cruise,  is  of  a  not  unusual 
type:  full  of  helpfulness  in  any  unexpected  situation.  He 
can  be  wonderfully  fierce  and  inexorable  when  such  is  the 
need,  and  as  tender  as  a  woman  when  the  humane  part  of 
his  nature  is  roused.  Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  can  re 
member,  as  can  I,  an  old  captain  who  could  swear  like 
a  whole  crew  of  pirates  in  a  storm,  and  could  lead  de 
votional  exercises  on  Sunday  in  the  cabin  with  wonder 
ful  sweetness  and  propriety. 


CHURCH-SNOBBISHNESS. 

The  disinclination  of  some  church  people  to  admitting 
humble  and  ill-dressed  people  to  their  seasons  of  wor 
ship,  is  alluded-to  on  page  84.  Of  course  they  do  not 
know  that  they  are  sometimes  thus  given  an  opportunity 

140 


After-Words. 

of  "entertaining  angels  unaware":  but  such  is  often  the 
case.  No  doubt  some  of  the  members  of  that  same  aristo 
cratic  congregation  lived  to  listen  with  eagerness  to  the 
little  prima  donna,  and  to  covet  her  acquaintance. 

A  LEGACY  TO  STARS. 

On  page  98,  is  a  reference  to  Professor  Watson,  once 
astronomer  of  the  Michigan  State  University  at  Ann  Arbor. 
Having  discovered  twentytwo  asteroids,  or  "minor  plan 
ets",  he  was  anxious  to  have  their  movements  traced,  from 
year  to  year,  and  recorded  in  the  annals  of  astronomy. 
For  this  purpose,  he  left  at  his  death  a  sum  of  money  in 
keeping  of  the  National  Academy  of  Sciences,  to  bear  the 
expenses  of  the  work. 

ULTRA-ANCIENT  CITIES. 

On  page  99,  is  a  mention  of  mound-builders^  a  race 
of  whom  there  is  not  so  much  as  a  scrap  of  history, 
but  whose  existence  is  as  sure  as  ours.  Their  mounds 
were  often  in  the  shape  of  the  octagon,  the  square,  the 
circle,  and  other  exact  mathematical  figures;  such  as  the 
Indian  never  could  have  made.  Their  work  has  been  traced 
from  the  regions  of  our  Northern  lakes,  all  the  way 
through  what  is  now  United  States,  into  Mexico  and 
Central  America. 

All  about  the  city  of  Chicago  have  been  discovered  the 
traces  of  mounds  in  abundance:  showing  that  a  great 
city  existed  there  long  before  the  first  settlement  of  the 
present  one — or  any  city  that  now  exists  on  this  conti 
nent. 

All  the  way  down  the  Mississippi  River,  and  in  the  lower 
valley  of  the  Missouri,  were  scores  and  hundreds  of  cities 
and  villages  erected  by  the  mound-builders. 

Not  only  Chicago,  but  St.  Louis,  is  evidently  built  upon 
the  site  of  a  mound-city.  Mounds  were  found  there  and 
in  the  immediate  vicinity,  and  numbered  by  the  hundred. 
Between  St.  Louis  and  Alton  was  the  great  mound  of 
Cahokia,  as  it  was  called — stated  by  moundologists  to  be 
the  monarch  of  everything  they  have  found  in  the  whole 

141  , 


Drifted   In. 

country.  It  has  now  been  swept  away  by  modern  im 
provements;  but  when  it  was  first  discovered,  "it  rose 
up,"  says  a  competent  authority,  "in  the  form  of  a  paral 
lelogram  with  sides  at  the  base,  respectively  500  and  700 
feet  in  length,  to  the  height  of  90  feet.  On  the  south 
west  there  was  a  terrace  160  feet  by  300  feet,  which  was 
reached  by  a  graded  way,  and  the  summit  was  truncated, 
affording  a  platform  200  by  450  feet.  From  this  rose  a 
small  conical  mound  about  ten  feet  high,  which,  upon  ex 
amination,  yielded  human  bones,  funeral-vases,  and  vari 
ous  implements  of  stone." 

No  doubt  that  here  was  one  of  the  greatest  mound- 
builders'  temples  on  this  continent:  maybe  it  was  the 
largest.  Perhaps  pilgrims  came  from  all  over  the  country, 
as  Mohammedans  go  to  Mecca. 

There  was  for  some  years  a  great  mound  in  the  very 
streets  of  St.  Louis,  which  it  was  necessary  to  remove, 
in  the  interests  of  modern  traffic.  Many  relics  were 
found  in  it. 

The  most  impressive  fact  about  these  mounds  Is,  that 
while  utensils,  ornaments,  pipes,  water- jugs,  statuettes, 
vases,  drinking-cups,  kettles,  pottery,  spear-  and  arrow 
heads,  chisels,  axes,  daggers,  etc.,  etc.,  have  been  dis 
covered  in  plenty,  there  has  not  been  found  a  single  record 
or  inscription  that  has  the  least  claim  to  authenticity. 
When  appealed-to  for  their  history,  the  mounds  are  not 
only  deaf,  but  dumb. 

It  will  be  understood  and  believed  that  our  Professor 
of  Moundology  had  a  hard  time  of  it  to  arouse  interest. 

TRUE  MEANING  OF  PEACE. 

On  page  119  will  be  found  the  theory  that  peace  is  not 
stagnation,  but  the  equable  and  comfortable  balancing  of 
forces  that  bear  against  each  other.  The  idea  of  this 
poem  was  suggested  to  the  author  at  Portsmouth,  N.  H., 
when  ambassadors  from  Russia  and  Japan  were  conduct 
ing  a  treaty  of  peace.  The  line 

"Earthquakes  in  fury  protested" 
is  in  allusion  to  the  fact  that  at  about  the  time  the  treaty 

142 


After-Words. 

was    concluded,  a    perceptible  shock  of  earthquake  ran 
up  and  down  the  Maine  and  New  Hampshire  coasts. 

STATESMEN  THAT  WERE  POOR  WHEN  BOYS. 
The  simple  and  poverty-stricken  boyhood  days  of  many 
of  our  American  statesmen,  as  contrasted  with  the  splen 
dor  of  their  subsequent  careers,  must  always  form  a  most 
interesting  study.  Several  of  our  national  presidents  have 
been  born  in  log  cabins:  but  the  histories  of  none  of  them 
are  more  impressive  than  that  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  The 
story  of  his  sailing  down  the  Mississippi  River,  on  a  rude 
flatboat,  carrying  produce  to  New  Orleans,  will  always  bz 
a  most  interesting  one.  If  a  "straw  vote"  could  have  been 
taken  as  to  who  in  that  whole  stretch  of  miles  was  most 
likely  to  some  time  be  the  chief  magistrate  of  the  nation, 
young  Lincoln  would  of  course  not  have  been  even  upon 
the  list.  Probably  some  of  the  brilliant  young  men  on 
board  the  steamer  passing  him,  might  have  received  a 
number  of  votes:  but  Lincoln — not  one!  (See  page  129.) 


SUDDEN  STORMS. 

The  sudden  appearance  of  a  "blizzard"  in  this  country — 
even  in  one  of  the  Spring  months — and  its  as-sudden 
disappearance,  are  not  unusual  occurrences.  The  greatest 
snow-storm  that  America  experienced  for  two  decades, 
came  toward  the  middle  of  a  March,  did  all  sorts  of  harm 
during  the  few  hours  it  lasted — and  disappeared,  leaving 
the  brightest  of  Spring  weather  to  follow  it.  The  meta 
morphose  of  our  particular  snowbanks  into  water  may  be 
rather  sudden,  but  is  not  impossible  or  even  improbable. 
Thunder-storms  in  winter  frequently  occur,  and  add  evi 
dence  to  the  fact  that  not  only  man,  but  everything  in 
nature,  is  "fearfully  and  wonderfully  made" — and  often 
as  suddenly  unmade.  (See  page  133.) 


SNOW-WONDERS. 

On   page   133  a  reference  is  made  to  the  wonderful 
splendors  that  surround  us  when  Snow  is  King.     The 

143 


Drifted  In. 

literature  of  this  white,  cold  covering  that  nature  throws 
upon  the  earth  is  extensive,  and  would  fill  volumes. 

Snowflakes  are  not  all  alike:  there  have  been  hundreds 
—almost, thousands  of  different  shapes  and  forms  depicted. 
They  come  in  prisms,  in  tiny  pyramids,  in  fern-leaves,  in 
rosettes,  stars,  stars  within  stars,  and  filagree  open-work. 

The  mathematical  part  of  the  "proposition"  is  well 
worthy  to  arouse  a  thrill  of  wonder.  "Snow  nature"  says 
a  competent  authority,  "is  bound  by  a  law  of  sixes.  The 
sides  of  every  prism  and  pyramid  meet  at  one  angle — 
that  of  sixty  degrees,  or  its  multiples;  every  vein  upon 
those  little  fern-leaves  joins  its  stem  at  that  one  angle, 
or  its  products.  The  stars  are  all  six-rayed  or  rarely 
twelve;  the  centres  all  hexagonal. 

"Climb  Chimborazo,  go  to  the  Pole,  or  even  make  your 
mimic  snow-storm  for  yourself  inside  a  chemist's  bottle 
— never  will  you  find  a  finished  snow-star  or  ice-star  with 
five  rays  or  with  seven,  or  with  that  law  of  the  angles 
broken.  The  rays  themselves  are  broken,  but  never  that 
creative  law.  Bruised,  shattered,  huddled  together,  the 
snowflakes  reach  us:  but  through  all  bruise  and  shatter, 
that  law  of  sixes  lies  plain  upon  them.  By  that  they  are 
born  and  live  and  die." 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  SONG. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  the  sea-captain's  song  on  page 
135,  was  delivered  in  somewhat  more  correct  language, 
than  was  his  story,  told  on  a  preceding  page.  This  pecu 
liarity  is  quite  noticeable  in  other  cases:  when  they  learn 
the  words  and  recite  or  sing  'them,  they  are  much  more 
likely  to  have  them  correct. 

Dialect  is  often  out-dialected.  Writers  seem  to  think 
that  if  any  one  speaks  at  all  ungrammatically,  or  with 
words  clipped  of  final  consonants,  he  must  do  so  in 
every  case.  But  this  is  not  true:  part  of  one's  speech 
may  be  in  dialect,  and  the  other  part  perfectly  proper. 

END    OF    BOOK. 


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Driftedin.       New  York,  Moffat.  Yard  and  Co 
1908. 

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